


The Season Six Job

by Valawenel



Series: The Texas Mountain Laurel [2]
Category: Leverage
Genre: Action, Case Fic, Crime Fighting, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Family, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Romance, TNT
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-25
Updated: 2014-06-21
Packaged: 2017-11-26 22:03:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 71
Words: 396,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/654877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Valawenel/pseuds/Valawenel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A sequel to 'The Occam's Razor Job', following cca one week after. (Part two in The Texas Mountain Laurel Series). After all this shit TNT put us through, there was only one way to deal with it - see what The Team would do when faced with TV Network. No need to read TORJ first, all you need to know will be explained.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Well, here it is. I had something else in my mind for a sequel, but then TNT canceled Leverage, and it was enough... I'm still mad, and it'll last for some time :D All events in this fic (that show what fans have done to help) are actually true - I was a part of it. This fic is for them (and for you) - crazy, devoted people who are still fighting, voting, promoting, spreading the word, contacting all networks, buying books, and doing everything to find a way to continue Leverage.
> 
> You can join us on Facebook, Twitter, LiveJournal, Tumblr... just ask for direction :D
> 
> If you want an instant note on new chapters posted, find me on Twitter as Valawenel, I'll tweet every new chapter. Many of above mentioned fans ( if you want to connect) are in my contacts, following and followers. Just ask :D Just, please don't ask in reviews signed in as a guest, I can't respond with message. Log in is just a few seconds.
> 
> PS: Nope, the things that Nate&Co will do are NOT actually true, don't worry :D Though, they are... possible :D

.

**The Season Six Job**

.

.

.

Florence McCoy turned off Skype at the last moment, deciding not to make call. She raised the bottle and took another sip of vodka, and giggled.

Jethro would be delighted if his wife called him completely drunk, slurring and babbling.

"Hi, darling, what's up?" she chirped at the blank screen. "Oh, nothing important. Just my show got canceled, I'm unemployed, I'm receiving serious threats, and my neighbor drug a dead body into his apartment. That was a few days ago, nothing smells in the corridor, so I guess he was very busy with an axe, a bathtub and some acid. Yep, just three meters from our door, darling. And, I bought a gun. Usual week. How's the weather in New Zealand?"

Orion mewed, demanding her attention, but she removed the cat from her working table, and pulled up the recording of her door camera, hidden in the ornaments around the peep hole. She had installed it when things started to get serious, when she finally figured out why her show didn't get a sixth season, in spite of the ratings. The corridor was empty, nothing was moving

She listened to the sound of the rain falling outside the closed windows, and wished Jethro was here. The evening of their second anniversary definitely wasn't a night to be spent alone, drunk and frightened.

"You know, an 11% drop in ratings is nothing. Nothing!" She waved the bottle at Orion whose eyes were wide and full of understanding. "They did every damn thing they could do to sabotage my show. You know what you have to do to achieve that? First, move the show's airing so people have no idea when the next episode is, because you, of course, don't promote it. Promoting the show during its airing is not promoting! And choose some lousy day in the middle of the week." Orion licked his paw and nodded. Of course he knew all that already, she thought, feeling a little guilty. "Second," she hissed. "You have to find a huge sporting event that airs at the same time, preferably the opening of the Olympic games if you have one handy… and lacking that, the most popular show that airs on a huge network with millions and millions, and millions viewers. Make sure it's close to the season finale, too. Don't forget to split those pathetic fifteen episodes into two small seasons, to make sure everyone forgets about it when it comes back after hiatus. And those who remember, and wait for it, surprisingly, don't know when it airs because you. don't. fucking. promote. IT!" She stopped and stared into the cat's eyes. "No," she whispered. "It's not them. It's him."

Orion tilted his head.

"You don't understand it," she cried. "What am I supposed to tell to the fans? I was forced to write a polite explanation, and to thank those sons of the bitches!"

Orion nodded once more, and then turned his head towards the door, and started sniffing.

"What? You can't be hungry, you ate just…" She stopped when the motion sensor on her screen started to blink. The grayish picture showed her killer neighbor, accompanied by a dark haired woman, leaving his apartment in a suspicious hurry. Orion mewed and rubbed his nose, and now Florence felt it too.

Oh. My. God.

It seemed that he hadn't gotten rid of the cadaver after all, it had rotted during those days just a few meters from her apartment… she gasped when nausea stirred the vodka in her belly. Traces of an awful smell had found their way under her door.

"Police…" she whispered, gulping. "We have to call the police."

Orion just looked at her; yes, she was drunk, and the police wouldn't come when a slurring, drunk woman started to babble about rotten corpses in a respectable building, and yes, she was also - _wait a minute_. She remembered that she had it recorded, the whole carrying the body sequence. Florence shivered when she remembered the blood on the corridor floor, and shivered once more when she recalled what had happen when the doors of the A2 apartment had closed; something that stunned her brain completely. Cora; the nice, young, always polite owner of McRory's bar in the basement, had showed up only minutes after, and had wiped up all the traces they'd left behind. Florence always suspected that her neighbor was doing something suspicious and illegal, but he simply couldn't have the _entire_ building in his gang.

"Unless he's mafia," she finished her though. "He works for the mafia, maybe as a lawyer or something like that, and Cora is being blackmailed, probably paying them for protection, or…" She grabbed a bunch of papers from the table and quickly put down a few notes for her next pilot – a brave TV writer, female and beautiful, happens to buy an apartment in the building owned by Mafia Killers Inc., but that only reminded her of her own troubles, her canceled show, and horde of angry and disappointed fans. With pitchforks.

"If Sherlock made it into the 21st century, Magnificent Seven in New York should have done even better," she said to Orion, feeling angry tears pouring down her face again. "Seven gorgeous guys, Orion, fighting for justice! Seven! How the hell it could possibly fail? Huh? Tell me!"

The awful odor was now stronger, and she tried to erase it with one more sip of vodka.

Fuck. She was frightened, she was lonely, her husband was in another hemisphere, and she was talking to the cat.

"I have to do something," she whispered.

If Orion nodded, she didn't see it, because right at the end of her statement the power went off, leaving them both in engulfing darkness.

"Meow?"

"Shhh." She listened to the soothing sound of the rain pouring down the windows; yet, she couldn't recall any thunder. The computer screen was radiating pale remains of light, and with that bluish light she got up, trying to find her cell phone. Oops… the damn room was dancing around her, and she had no idea where to find a lamp or matches.

She blindly walked to the hall, but the phone line was dead as well. What kind of unheard thunder could cut both the electricity and telephone line?

And only in her apartment, she realized when she saw a tiny spot of light – through the peep hole she could see that the lights in the corridor were still lit. Her mind was adjusted to writing crime stories, and in the one long, long second seven different scenes went through her mind… every one including Forensic party raiding all over the place. She almost giggled again when she recalled how many times she wrote casual dealing with dangerous intruders; in fact, all seven of her characters would deal with it in their own, unique way.

The little dot of light disappeared when a shadow stood in front of the peephole, blocking the light, and a soft cracking sound came from the door, as if claws were tapping on the wood. She stood there, frozen, while the thumping of her heart almost covered another, louder crack.

Florence was drunk, but she wasn't stupid; someone was breaking in, and if she didn't move, and hide, she was going to die here. She had bought a gun. It was still in the box from the store, unopened, probably in pieces that needed to be put together, somewhere in her bedroom, and she knew she should run there and try to find it. In pitch dark.

But she _couldn't_ move.

Her slow brain was swimming in vodka, her legs were completely dumb, and when the door gave way with the last cracking sound, she just gasped as blinding light hit her eyes.

She should scream, she thought, still holding the useless phone, squinting at the three men.

Two of them were on the door, both dressed in black, with faces covered by identical black masks; how cliché. Even the knives in their hands were…predictable. She thought of seven ways of disarming two armed attackers, and opened her mouth to start screaming.

No sound came. Right at the moment her lungs drew enough air for the scream that should alarm the entire building, she looked at the third man, and almost choked.

He was standing behind the first two.

He was dressed in light blue pajamas with elephants holding large daisies.

And she had seen his dead body being carried in apartment A2 just few days ago.

.

.

.

"I'm going to kill him," Sophie repeated for the third time in four minutes, and Nate just sighed, trying to open the broken umbrella. They left the car by the park and went for a quick walk, to breathe.

"Don't bother," Sophie continued, speeding up. "Maybe the rain can wash out this, this… do you realize that that smell is still on our clothes? In my hair?!" She waved frantically. "I _am_ going to kill him."

"You asked for it," he said calmly. "After that crazy mix of vegetables and the cinnamon, that we all had to eat, I must say, you could expect revenge."

"Now it's my fault, huh? Nate, Eliot is cooking bloody sheep bowels, for Christ's sake! I don't even know if that is supposed to be eaten. I'm not Bear Grylls!" She turned around and continued her quick pace down the street, and he sighed once more before he went after her.

Their plan was turning against them; their attempts to occupy Eliot with attacks on cooking in general, became a war in only a few days. And they were losing. Eliot was barely able to walk to the kitchen, but if they thought that almost bleeding out from a gunshot wound would stop him from making their lives miserable, they were very, _very_ wrong.

"Slow down," Nate said catching up with Sophie. He carefully checked the dark places in the street, just in case. Bonnano only yesterday gave them permission to leave the apartment, but even Patrick wasn't completely sure that the situation in town was calm enough for them to walk around freely. All the cartels that were pissed off were busy with their own problems, precisely arranged problems, but the mess that had almost killed them all still had the power to ignite yet another fire.

And their hitter was barely able to breathe and stay upright after a ten step walk around the apartment; they were stuck in one place until he got better.

Nate started the countdown when he saw that Sophie had calmed down, and in just half a minute, she stopped and turned around. "Maybe we should go back." It was her turn to sigh now. "The sooner we open all the windows, the faster that smell will clear out… I'm sure he won't remember to do it, and every minute that passes that smell is sticking on everything. It will stay for days."

"Good idea," he smiled and nodded, but she knew him too well, and her eyes narrowed.

"No, I'm not worried that we left him alone," she murmured. "Betsy said he's doing great, much better than she expected, and she might be only a nurse, but I trust her judgment much more than I trust Doctor Sciortino. The same day he said he wouldn't be able to walk for days, Eliot was cooking that awful… what did he call it?"

"I don't remember. In fact, I refuse to remember. Okay, let's go back."

No, he didn't think she was worried about his wound and weakness; it wasn't worry at all. It was concentration that radiated from her all those days, visible only in small, hidden glances under her eyelashes. She was studying Eliot's every move, thought and word, keeping watch over him, waiting for the signs of recovery that had nothing with the bullet that almost killed him.

Of course Eliot was aware of the attention, and it only added one more thing to the list of things that were pissing him off, slowly, but inevitably turning him into a walking…okay, mainly laying down, ticking time bomb. After all, all that cooking mess wasn't in vain, it gave him something to do, something to occupy himself from thinking about all things that happen in that dreadful few days after Chileans attacked them. It kept the ghosts away… but the demons were always there, never leaving.

The ringing of his phone stopped his thinking, and he checked the display.

"Eliot," he said to Sophie. "If our luck holds, he wants us to buy something. Listening…"

No sound came from the other end of the line, and he waited a few seconds. "Eliot? Talk to me." Nothing.

The silence spread for a few more seconds, ending with the quiet, but very clear sound of a phone hitting the ground.

.

.

.

There was something deeply disturbing about a walking corpse dressed in blue pajamas. Florence could understand being killed by black, hooded killers, but this… her death would be robbed of its last remaining dignity. Oh yes, she was drunk.

Florence sighed, stopped swaying and raised both hands, preparing herself to flail all around in an attempt to avoid the knives, and hit the killers as many times as she could – she had written hundreds of fist fights, and they all looked convincing on screen. Theoretically, she was a damn expert on all sorts of fighting. Those guys had no idea what amount of accumulated knowledge was being prepared to be unleashed on their pitiful…

The third man quietly cleared his throat. "Excuse me." That caused the first two to quickly turn around, and Florence was very proud of her reasoning when she realized that the third man, who was, by the way, pretty good looking for a rotten corpse, _wasn't_ with them. She frowned, trying to forget that his choice of clothes should suggest the same at first glance. "I called the police," he continued and slowly raised his hand, showing them a cell phone. "They'll be here in a minute; patrols are always on this block. You have enough time to disappear – if you go now." The last word was said strangely low, sounding much more like order, than a suggestion, and his smile surely had nothing calming in it.

Florence rearranged her feet on the ground, and shook her arms, clenching her hands into fists again. That must have scared the hell out of the killers, because they took a step back and aside, now both of them back in the corridor, facing the third man. "You know, I'm an expert in all sorts of fighting," she blurted when they both, even more slowly, took one more step, increasing the distance between them. "They are going to attack you from two sides at the same time."

The third man… hell, it was stupid to call him that – _the corpse_ glanced at her with surprise in his eyes – wow, nice eyes - seemingly paying no attention to the two that were to the left and right of him. "Nah, they wouldn't," he drawled.

She squinted when they both lunged forward in a very coordinated, very dangerous move. They knew what they were doing, they'd done it many times, and she also knew what was going on…. the only one who obviously had no idea was their target. His smile was full of blissful ignorance.

He should have taken two quick steps to either side, to deal with the first one, giving himself time for the second, but the damn idiot just stood there watching them charging with the knives. Florence knew exactly what Ezra would do in this situation, and how quick Vin would be if attacked this way – but instead of her characters, she was stuck in deadly danger with a fucking _amateur_.

He just backed away from the first knife that swung in front of his neck – he didn't even rise his hands to block the hits – and he did something that looked like an attempt to step aside… but it was stopped when his foot collided with the second attacker's left ankle. Luckily for him, the pain distracted him for a second, and his knife missed as well.

"Cover yourself, you idiot!" she screamed when the first one threw his blade again. "Use your left hand as a… fuck!" Her scream must have scared the corpse, because he turned to her, leaving his side completely unprotected from attack, but the head of the first attacker – and she couldn't explain how – crushed into his elbow that just remained there, by happy chance.

She had no time to yell again, because the first one jumped in again, while the second one was staggering two steps back, and this time the killer's knee took a blow, causing a pained scream. He dropped the knife and bent over, in perfect position to be hit in the head with a knee.

Florence blinked for a moment, realizing that this man had just stopped the first simultaneous attack without using his hands, and without moving from his position – maybe he wasn't as amateurish as she thought. Or it was a beginner's luck.

Luck or not, it was fading fast – both killers were slower now, but they were still standing, and the second one threw himself into him, trying to knock him down, and stab him at the same time. With a move that was apparently slow, the corpse just removed himself from his path, catching his wrist on the downswing, and he did fucking _nothing_ , he just directed his jump directly into the wall. The killer hit the wall nose first, and fell like he was dead. That probably saved the corpse's life, because the last one had to jump over his fallen comrade and it slowed the blow that hit the corpse in the stomach – a fist, not a knife, thank god… he didn't have time to pick it up from the floor. It must have been a nasty hit, because it almost knocked the corpse down, and the wall kept him from falling; he took three fast and heavy hits before he managed to block them. Florence couldn't see what he did, the attacker's back was blocking her sight, but it must have been a head hit, his hands were both down.

The rest of it went just like she would write it – the killer's staggering back and raising both hands to protect the head, which left his belly open for a raised knee, and final blow with a knee in the nose when he bent over.

Those two would stay down for a long, long time.

"You know, with a little training, you can make a career out of it," she said gleefully, peeking into the corridor. The corpse darted her an irate look; he was leaning on the wall with his back, and his breathing was labored, reminding her of the hits he took. "Are you hurt?" she glanced at his face – completely white now, fully appropriate for a dead man.

"Nope," he shook his head, but he didn't move, he just slowly put his left hand over his chest; the right one was still immobile. "Search them… take everything they have… IDs, phones, other weapons. Don't touch the knives."

Florence did what he said, squinting when nausea stirred with sudden movement, helped by the smell that was spreading all over the building from the half opened door of her neighbor's apartment. Though this one had helped her – and obviously he wasn't dead, so her theory about the mafia _killer_ fell apart – there still were many things to explain.

"No more weapons, no IDs, phones taken," she reported. "What now? You called the police?"

"No. I didn't know who they were. Go now… lock yourself in… they might have backup. Don't leave the apartment until we tell you."

"We?" She eyed him, taking one careful step closer. He definitely didn't look well, he was barely able to focus on her.

He pointed at his phone that was on the floor two steps away, and she quickly handed it to him.

"Just go." It was a ghost of a whisper now; he managed to hit the number, but it seemed that raising the hand with the phone was too much; or he was simply waiting until she left, to speak in private, so she sighed and headed for the door. She could hear a male voice from the phone – a calm response at first, but when no answer came, the voice tensed.

She turned around at the door. "Are you sure that-" She stopped when she saw his eyes; they were empty. He didn't hear her, just like he didn't hear the voice from the phone; he was watching it as if trying to remember what to do with it, and not succeeding. Florence went one small step closer when the phone slowly slid from his fingers and fell on the floor. He blinked once, slowly, still staring at his now empty hand, and before she made another step, his knees buckled and he crashed to the floor.

Well, _fuck_.

.


	2. Chapter 2

 

 

***

 

.

 

“Hardison.”

“The late evening quest for fennel, _AKA if you bring me anise, I'll snap you in half_ , ended successfully and we won't, I repeat, we won't continue it for another exotic thing – he can wait 'til tomorrow, thankyouverymuch!”

“Hardison, shut up and listen.” Nate didn’t have to yell, the hacker must have sensed the tension in his voice. “Go back, now. Let Parker drive, come here as fast as you can. You still have the motion sensors and cameras in and around the apartment?”

“Nope, I took them down three days ago, there was no need for them anymore – why? What happened?”

“Eliot just called me. He said nothing, he dropped the phone, and the line is still open – no sounds from the other side. We are a few minutes away from the building. Where are you?”

The hacker’s response was covered by the screeching of tires and loud bangs, mixed with muffled curses, and Nate squinted, moving the phone – Sophie's – away from his ear.

“On the way to a quick death, that’s where we are- SLOW DOWN! Fuck!” Something that sounded like broken glass cut off his words and transformed them into muffled, choked curses. “We are fifteen minutes away – you have no idea how hard is to find fennel – but we’ll be there in five.”

“Okay, just careful-”

“Careful, my ass – I’m trying to locate his phone to see if he’s still in the building, but I can’t fucking catch my tablet to do it! Look, Nate…” Hardison paused, and Nate wasn’t sure if he was thinking, or fishing for his phone on Lucille’s floor. “Maybe, maybe, I dunno, it doesn’t mean trouble at all – what if he was in the kitchen with that awful thing, and accidentally turned the phone on?”

“Eliot would _accidentally_ turn on the phone?”

“Yep, I see your point,” he sighed. “Okay, go now; I’ll call if I find anything.”

Nate cut the line and checked the time. Sophie was driving and, at the same time, listening to the silence on his phone with still opened line, and she shook her head in response – still no sounds, nothing that could tell them what happened.

They’d lost three minutes walking back to the car, and they had at least three more until they reached the building, so he spent them thinking about every possible trouble that could come their way as the outcome of the mess with the Chileans. Problem was, just counting all the gangs and cartels that were involved in that fuckup took most of that time, and he didn’t even start to deal with the things that they might know, might use, and might want to avenge.

They used the back entrance and went to the second floor unnoticed.

Two unconscious men on the floor; Eliot’s phone near the wall; half opened door of apartment A2.

No sounds. And no Eliot.

“Stay here,” he whispered, stopping Sophie from going too near, and went into the apartment.

There was no sign of forced entry, the lock looked untouched, and at first glance he couldn’t see anything different inside. Except, of course, that Eliot wasn’t there as he should  have been.

He ran upstairs to check the bedroom, though he wasn’t sure if Eliot was able to climb the winding stairs; nothing. He returned even faster, checking the kitchen before he went into the hall again, not wanting to leave Sophie alone with those two for too long.

“He’s not there, isn’t he?” she asked calmly, and only a slight tremor in her voice betrayed her distress. “Any ideas?”

“He turned the stove off,” Nate said, thinking. He checked both men, took their masks off, and observed the knives.

“Great, but I’m not asking about the smell! He couldn’t leave on his own. Who took him? How can we find out- Nate, there’s too many possibilities, and with his phone still here, how-”

“Shhhh,” he smiled, noticing her voice getting higher and higher. “This doesn’t make any sense. It’s just-”

“What? They surprised him, attacked him, and took him away! At least we can assume he’s still alive, or else he would be here with those…”

“Nope.”

She gasped, and he quickly continued. “I mean, he wasn’t surprised, attacked and taken, I wasn’t referring to ‘still alive’ part.” Nate circled around the fallen attackers. “He heard them in the hall, turned the stove off, and went to check. He wasn’t _surprised_ and taken down, no… He opened the door – I can’t say how the fight went, but remember, the line was open and there was no sound. He dealt with them _before_ he called me.” Nate picked up Eliot’s phone and ended the call, slowly looking at the details in the corridor. “If there were more of them, and they escaped, he wouldn’t… no, he would, but he couldn’t go after them, not after this fight. And he wouldn’t leave his phone…” he trailed off and smiled, noticing barely visible abrasions on the door of apartment 2B. “Stay here and keep an eye on those two – not too close. Call me if they move, and wait for Parker and Hardison, don’t let them make a noise.”

“Where are you going?”

“Not far.” He turned around and rang the doorbell on 2B.

.

.

 

***

.

.

 

It took almost half a minute until his eyes got used to the darkness that surrounded him, but Eliot didn’t move. A carpet beneath his face was soft and tickling, so he could move without any noise, yet he decided to wait until he was sure he would stay upright when he got up.

The buzzing in his head had calmed down, allowing him to hear the soft footsteps that quickly paced the length of the room, accompanied by barely audible murmuring.

“Whatnow-whatnow-whatnow…” The woman’s shadow was just a darker shape in the darkness, but the street lights through blinds gave off enough light for walking – though not enough to find the thing she was frantically searching for.

He made no sound when he pushed himself off the carpet, and stood up, helping himself with a glass table near him, but he almost swore when the dizziness struck again. He wasn’t worried because everything hurt – it was expected with any fast movement – but this weakness was way too much. He shouldn’t be completely exhausted after a fight that usually wouldn’t speed up his heartbeat. Now, even after lying down for few minutes, his pulse was still as fast as if he had sprinted ten miles, and his legs were shaking, just able to keep his weight.

He was a mess. He knew he was in bad shape, of course, but it took a fight to show him how much, precisely, he was ruined. The first hit he took right below the bandages almost knocked him out, pain paralyzing every reaction, and he couldn’t remember the last time he was unable to move, allowing an opponent three more blows before he was able to breathe in again and act. If the killer had a knife…

  _It wasn’t fucking normal_. Only a few seconds of standing brought the buzzing back, and forced him to sit in the nearby chair to avoid collapsing again, and it was good he was becoming more and more pissed off with every second that passed, because it pushed a little more blood into his brain.

“Have you locked the door?” he asked the woman; he'd had enough of this shit.

“Hah!” The yell was accompanied by a swift turn, the distinctive sound of a safety clicking off – _Colt automatic, strange weapon for a woman_ – and her staggering over the glass table. Eliot squinted when she hit the floor, waiting for the bang that would follow, but no explosion came.

“Stay where you are.” Her voice was muffled by the carpet, and he could almost see her gathering herself with her face stuck in it.

“Why?” he smiled.

“’Cause I said so.”

“I should go and check those two in the corridor, and get my phone,” he slowly explained. “I’m expecting friends to return, and it’s not safe-”

“No. First, I want answers. Who are you, who is he, and what are you doing?” He saw her crawling away, unaware she was visible on slightly lighter carpet, to the chair opposite to his. “I ask, you answer,” she continued when she sat. “Understood? I have the gun, I have no idea who you are, except you’re suspicious. You might be one of them, sent to gain my trust.”

“Seriously? The man who sent us gave us very strict orders: wait until the two of them successfully break in, but then stop them from killing her, because you’ll gain her trust and _then_ kill her. Trust is extremely important, she mustn’t be killed without trusting you first,” he said solemnly. “And, if you forget to wear pajamas, everything will be ruined.” He let a little smile creep into his voice, and soften it a bit. “Paranoia is great thing, darlin’, but let’s be real. Why do you think that your neighbor’s visitor, who helped you with killers, is suspicious?”

“Because I saw you dead – okay, almost dead, being taken into that apartment – and I've always thought he's connected with shady business of some sort. Decent citizens do not catch bullets.”

“Oh yes, they do.” His eyes caught a movement in the back of the room – something small and white jumped up onto the working table. “Now, what have you done that brought two killers after you? Decent or shady business? Who are they and why did they try to kill you?”

Her hesitation was visible. She drew one long, deep breath, but then suddenly jumped on her feet. “Stay,” she whispered and ran away, stumbling again over unseen obstacles.

He sighed, listening to the sounds of vomiting, then slowly got up again. He had no time for her questions, not before he secured the perimeter and made sure those two were alone.

Walking was harder than he thought, and he had to keep his hand on the wall for support to reach the hall. Cutting the power first, and probably telephone line, was screaming professional hit. “How long I was down?” he asked when the sounds from bathroom paused.

“Minute, two … I don’t know. I drug you inside and searched for a cell phone.”

The fight was one minute long, and with this conversation, less than five minutes had passed after they broke down the door. Enough time for-

“Stop!” she rushed from the bathroom, trying to locate him, waving the gun all around, and he could smell Vodka. Great, a scared, drunk woman with a gun, stumbling around him in the darkness. He rested his back on the wall, thinking about how to disarm her without seeing what he was doing, and without killing them both in the process. The safety was off, and if she pressed the trigger, she would spray bullets everywhere until she emptied it.

If he stayed silent, her panic would rise with every second – if he said something, so close, she could freak out immediately – the result might be the same. Even worse, if something else scared her-

_Right_. Exactly at that moment the door bell rang. _Perfect timing, Nate_.

.

.

 

***

.

.

 

The doors weren’t locked, weren’t even closed completely, so Nate could clearly hear the quiet scream, then the slamming and falling from apartment 2B.

“I’m coming in!” he announced and pushed the door, keeping himself to the right, just in case, but when no response came he entered the dark hall, letting the light from the corridor in.

A small young woman, with short blond hair that glowed in the semi darkness was sitting on the floor, hugging an ancient-looking phone, staring confusedly at Eliot, who was standing by the wall. He had a gun in his hand.

“She hit me with that thing,” he said, rubbing his forehead with his other hand, and Nate took that casual remark as a sign that there was no trouble in the rest of the apartment, at least not the one that needed immediate solving.

“What’s going on, Mrs. McCoy?” Nate said, going closer, reaching with his hand to help her up, but she slid back from him.

“How do you know my -back off! I’m calling the police!” She raised the giant phone whose cord was pulled from the wall, and Nate nodded and smiled.

“That’s a great idea. If you want, I’ll call Captain Detective Bonnano; he’s my friend and he’ll be here in a matter of minutes. He’s State Police.” He noticed her slight slurring and teary, frightened eyes – she had to be calmed down first, before they even began to ask her complicated questions. “You don’t have to talk to us, you can tell him everything.”

“Nope.” Eliot took one careful step closer, and Nate quickly assessed his posture; not good, not good at all. But at least he was still standing. “I have one question that can’t wait.” His tone was deadly serious, and the little pixie darted him a scared glance. “How much time passed between the power going off, and the first sound at your door?”

“Why?”

“Just answer,” Eliot growled at the scared girl, and that was enough to double Nate’s worry.

“Seconds. I got up to find my cell phone, then went to hall to call from this one, and they were in front…. fifteen seconds, I guess.”

Nate watched Eliot’s stiffening. “What?”

“The electric switchboard for the entire building is behind Mc’Rory’s,” he said, slowly turning around. And there was no chance they could turn off the power and just materialize here; Nate mentally finished  his sentence; they had a third man who was now waiting, and asking himself why ‘s this taking them so long.

“Can you do it?” he asked.

“Nope,” Eliot smiled. “But I’ll have to. Wait here-”

“Nate,” Sophie called from the hall, her voice switched up one octave. “Remember you told me to call you if they moved?” Eliot was already storming to the door after he heard her first word, but he stopped abruptly as if he slammed into glass.

“Stay here,” Nate whispered to the girl and followed him.

One of the black-clad attackers was standing, holding Sophie and a knife on her throat, pushing the other one with his foot to wake him up. They were at least five meters away from Eliot – with that knife over her throat, even if he was completely healthy, he wouldn’t have enough time to reach him and disarm him before he killed her.

For one second no one moved, all of them just stood frozen, staring at each other: the only movement he noticed out of a corner of his eye was pixie behind him, peeking through the door.

 “Throw that gun down,” the man whispered; the fear and anger in his voice were clear.

Nate said nothing; this was Eliot’s playground and he had to trust him, but the hitter wasn’t able to do anything. He averted his eyes from Sophie’s and glanced at him. His worry became real fear when he saw his relaxed leaning on the wall with one shoulder – supporting himself to stay upright, weakness covered by a glint in his eyes and a lazy smile. He held the gun in his right hand and Nate knew he wasn’t able to stretch his arm and aim.

“This one?” he asked; the gun was in his opened palm, he weighed it, not taking his eyes off the killer. Nate could clearly see the effort he put into hiding the shaking of his hand.

They needed a change in set positions and to switch priorities, and they needed it fast. “I’ve told you not to bring whores to the apartment,” Nate hissed under his breath. “Who’s gonna clean up after this, huh?” he darted a nasty glance to the killer. “If you kill her, take the body away.”

“Hey!” There was clear indignation in Sophie’s voice now. “How dare you! I’m a dancer!” her accent switched to nasal Russian in a second.

“Shut up!” Eliot growled. “You kill the bitch, go on. And what then? That knife didn’t help you a few minutes ago, it ain’t helping you now that's for sure.”  He took one small step forward and Nate held his breath. The killer kicked his fallen friend in the head, and he moaned and stirred.

“One more step and I’ll cut her throat!” the man barked. “Drop the gun!”

“No, I have better idea,” Eliot grinned. “Kill the whore. And I’ll do this.” He turned around and threw the gun into the pixie’s hands. The girl caught it with an aghast sigh. “Let’s see what the frightened, mad woman who you just tried to kill can do when armed.”

The killer’s eyes went wide as he stared at the girl, and Nate’s heart almost skipped a beat; an automatic weapon in the hands of a hysterical woman… but then he came to his senses. Eliot would never increase the danger for Sophie. He remembered him weighing the gun. _It was empty_. Eliot was one more step closer now, and the killer didn’t even notice him approaching in that short second while they all stood frozen. Just three more steps and he’d reach the one who was now on his knees, struggling to get up.

Sophie’s eyelashes slowly went down, responding to some sign of Eliot's that Nate missed seeing, but whatever they were arranging, the hitter was still four meters away.

“People like you,” a low, dark voice sounded through the hall, and Nate flinched, turning to the girl. She was standing upright, slowly raising the arm with the gun. Her eyes were cold and cruel. “Are the main reason I took so many shooting lessons. People like you,” she continued with even more strength in her voice, “are the main reason why I’m able to shoot you right in your right eye. At four meters distance, I can choose if I want to hit your pupil or your eyelid.  Put. The. Knife. Down.” The last words were a low growl, and after just one look at her fierce eyes, the killer pushed Sophie towards Eliot and yanked the other one onto his feet. They ran a few steps and disappeared around the corner in the hall.

“Don’t!” Nate stopped Eliot who went after them. “They’ll get the third one and retreat, you can’t catch up with them. Later.”

Nate just glanced at Sophie before he turned to his neighbor; Sophie smiled and nodded, then went to Eliot, already quietly whispering.

“That was perfect, Mrs. McCoy.” Nate said gently, carefully approaching her.

“You think?”  Her eyes lost the fierce glaze, but she was still standing completely stiff. “I chose Chris’s approach, he can be deadly persuasive, t-though I think light banter would do just as nice as this. I was actually considering  using the entire dialogue from the season finale, but it was just recently aired, and what if he watched it and remembered it, then he would know I was just acting and he would-  this…this was a version that didn’t make into the final draft so I could use it with changes, it wasn’t a knife, it was a gun…” she stopped to take some air, and at the moment her face went completely white, as if she finally realized that she could have been killed. Nate glanced toward the end of the hall; she wasn’t the only one whose adrenalin was quickly draining out. Eliot was leaning on the wall with his eyes closed, listening to the sounds of distant footsteps. Sophie was standing beside him, in arm's reach, and Nate caught her light nod.

“We should get inside,” he said. “Mrs. McCoy, you’re coming with us until we decide what to do, okay?”

She dropped the gun and hugged herself, and he could almost swear he heard her teeth chattering, when she raised her eyes to the two newcomers and smiled with relief. “Mr. Hardison!” she exclaimed. “Thank God… we have a murder attempt here in the building. And a break in – my doors are ruined, and they cut off my power and phone line. These… gentlemen here helped me, though…” she bit her lip and hesitated.

Nate noticed Parker hiding a taser behind her back when she saw the unknown woman, and Hardison stood in midstep, uncertain what to do with the crowbar that he held.

“Oh, Mrs. McCoy, yes, right, that’s why I‘m here, yes, don’t worry.” The hacker glanced around and carefully poked Eliot with the crowbar. “You need this?”

“Don’t tempt me,” his reply was harsh and low, but Hardison just grinned at his glare, and pulled out of nowhere a green-looking bouquet. “Here is _Only an idiot can’t tell a difference between anise and fennel,_ also known as _It’s a very distinctive smell_.”

Nate just sighed when he saw her eyes glazing – her landlord had just confirmed himself to be a part of the suspicious gang, and in the next moment they could expect her to run back into her apartment and return with the bullets for her gun.

“Guys. Inside. Now,” he ordered.

Surprisingly, Eliot was the first to move; he took the fennel from Hardison and went to the pixie, swaying dangerously as he stood before her.

“Good job,” he whispered.

She almost smiled. “You knew I would do that, right? When you threw me the gun?”

“Nope. I thought you’d freak out and start screaming… and waving the gun…giving me time to get closer.”

Nate took a step closer when he heard his voice fluttering on the last words; Eliot was looking two inches beside her, and he knew the hitter was standing with the last remains of his strength. He'd seen that look before, in front of Villacorta; unfocused, unable to penetrate the darkness that covered everything in front of him. He couldn’t see her.

Nate hesitated a moment, knowing he could collapse any moment, and knowing even better that offering  help would piss him off even more than going down.

“Everybody, get inside,” he ordered and nudged Hardison and Parker in front of him, and Sophie took the girl with her, warming her with a smile. “Eliot, we won’t wait ‘til 3 a.m. here. Come on.”

He waited a second, but Eliot caught the message and turned in the direction he gave him, towards the door.

Nate waited until he reached the door, and then checked the corridor once more, carefully taking the one remaining knife and the gun on the floor. He closed B2 as good as he could, and sighed in relief when he entered after them. And locked the door.

Damn, they weren’t ready for this. Not yet.

 


	3. Chapter 3

***

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The dark haired woman wrapped her in a blanket and sat her on a sofa, leaving her alone while she went to prepare tea, but Florence resisted the urge to pull the blanket over her head and just drift away, no matter how drained and sick she felt.

She had been drug into the Mafia Lair – no, to be precise, it seemed that entire building was one huge mafia lair, and this apartment was a Queen's Nest.  A King's Nest? Yes, definitely a King’s Nest, she thought, watching their behavior.

The corpse made a beeline to one door in the large room, probably the bathroom, and he had been there since. Her honorable landlord, a young black man she came to know as polite and professional, always willing to help and very serious, now was nervously pacing the floor in front of the bathroom, occasionally stopping to listen, but not daring to knock or go inside.

The young blonde woman was scaring her; she perched herself on the stairs at the other end of the room, making her feel surrounded, and she just stared at her without moving. Every time Florence would glance at her, she would meet her narrowed eyes. Except for one time when she turned herself upside down, hanging from the stairs by her feet – but even then, her eyes never left her.

Her neighbor turned on the big screens in front of the sofa, and though the volume was low, she couldn’t hear what he was talking about with the dark haired woman in the kitchen. She could hear his voice – dark, low and serious, and it sounded like they were arguing.

It took only a few minutes for the tea to be ready, and when the older woman brought her a cup, Florence knew the time for a rundown had came when she saw her quick, quizzical glance to her neighbor. He probably nodded and approved, because the woman sat beside her and smiled.

“My name is Sophie. This tea won’t help you with a hangover, but at least you’ll be hydrated.”

“I’m not _that_ drunk,” Florence whispered, remembering too late that she should act more drunk than she was, and try to draw some information from them. They would be much less cautious in front of an incoherent drunk.

“I know. But the fact that two men just tried to kill you is not helping, right? Relax, you’re safe here.”

Yeah, right. Safe. Florence could feel the narrowed eyes of the blond woman burning a hole into her skull. However, she took the cup and held it with both hands, warming her frozen fingers.

Mr. Hardison was now shaking his head. “No, no way. You go.” He was talking to the kitchen. “Or better yet, call Betsy.”

“Parker,” her neighbor said only that, coming closer, and sat in the chair facing her. Florence flinched.

“No, man, don’t do it, who knows what he might be doing, you can’t send her in-” Hardison stopped when the blonde woman strode directly to the bathroom, without hesitation, grinning at him. “This ain’t ending well, I tell you.” He sighed and joined them few moments later, this time with a laptop. “Mrs. McCoy, this is Nate Ford… in case you haven’t met before,” he continued.

“Are you connected with criminal activities?” Florence asked immediately before she lost all her courage, and held her breath, watching the quick smile on her neighbor’s face.

“Of all the questions you could ask, that one might be the hardest to answer honestly,” he said slowly. “Let’s say… we encounter criminal activities on a daily basis. Why?”

“I thought he was dead when you carried him in here,” she nodded to the bathroom. “I thought you were the killer.”

“Eliot was… caught in the middle of those confusing events all over Boston a few days ago. He was in the wrong place… at the wrong time,” he said carefully. “Knowing how many dead and wounded there were that night, we can say he was lucky to be alive.”

“He’s okay, still standing. Just staring at the mirror.” The blonde woman, _Parker_ , came back unnoticed. “He said he’ll join us in a minute.”

“Hissing or growling?” Sophie said.

“Hissing.”

“Not good.” Sophie sighed and got up; Florence followed her with a glance, just then noticing a huge hospital bed behind her back. “Nate, don’t let him sit and talk,” she said arranging the pillows.

“I don’t think he would try,” he replied, and then turned to Florence again. “We thought about calling the police, but it’s your decision. Unfortunately, there’s nothing they can do now. The attackers had gloves, the knife they left is a plain, cheap one, and the only thing the police can investigate are the abrasions on your door. Do you _want_ to call them?”

“It’s useless,” she said quietly.

“This wasn’t a burglary,” Ford went on. “Why do they want you dead?”

What a simple question… she stared at him, not sure whether she was more scared of them, or the killers. “I have… incriminating data on one man, which proves his business decisions were intentionally directed for his own benefit, causing serious damage to the involved parties,” she said cautiously.

He said nothing, and she noticed the inquiring glances the others threw to him.

“Well, that sounds as if the big bad guy screwed over the little people,” Hardison murmured, typing something, breaking the sudden silence. Ford’s mouth went into a thin line, and Florence knew she was missing some subtext here.

“They were interrupted,” Ford went on, completely dismissing Hardison’s words. “If retrieving that data, and killing you, is important to that man, they will try again. Do you have any place to go?”

“I don’t know anybody here. My husband is in New Zealand… I can go to a hotel.”

“Even in Boston, finding a woman who checked in alone, this late at night, wouldn’t take more than ten minutes. The hotels are not safe, if they want to find you, they’ll do it. You’ll stay here tonight, and tomorrow we shall see what to do, okay?”

“Safe houses?” asked Sophie.

“Compromised.  The Chileans did their research when preparing their ambushes, we can’t risk it,” he hesitated again. “We are not ready for this.”

“We weren’t ready for San Lorenzo, either,” Hardison said. “Sometimes, the situation calls for impulsive acts. This one…”

Florence looked at them, just listening, thinking about how not to show her worries… staying here with these people was the last thing on her list. She half expected Cora to enter with a machine gun and state she had dealt with the intruders in the parking lot.

“We are not living here,” Sophie said gently; obviously, her thoughts weren’t so well hidden. “If you’re uncomfortable staying here with only Nate and Eliot, I’ll stay too.”

Parker raised her hand in the air. “I know! Why don’t we make an ambush in her apartment and wait for those two-”

“Are you out of your – yep, wrong question.” The raspy voice from the bathroom door startled the blonde woman a little. “You don’t _wait_ for killers, Parker. You avoid them.”

“You’re just jealous you can’t go there and wait for them yourself.”

The corpse, _Eliot_ , slowly passed their sofa, going to the bed behind her back, without response, just with one nasty glance to the now smiling blonde.

Florence took one deep breath. “Who are you people?” she asked wearily. She didn’t _remember_ falling through a rabbit hole, but everything was possible with cheap vodka.

“Leverage Consulting and Associates.” Nate Ford was calmly stirring his tea. “We… consult for people with problems. Sometimes we help in solving them.”

“And, you just accidentally own the entire building?” Florence turned to Hardison.

“Nope, I bought it when he came to live here. I had spare change at that moment. Can you tell me the name of that person, Mrs. McCoy?”

“Florence,” she said without thinking. “He is… the C4 Network vice president, Michael Winslow.”  This was a bad idea, she thought; according to everything she saw, they could still work for the mafia… consulting, right. But the best way to find out more about them, was to play their game and silently observe. After all, she was out of here the first thing in the morning. She would take Orion and disappe… oh shit.  “Orion,” she said. “My cat is still in the apartment. If they return… I can’t leave him, may I…”

“Parker.” Nate Ford again said only that – the blonde woman was obviously his secretary with mind reading abilities. Florence sighed, clearing her mind; thinking about mutant vigilantes with superpowers that owned a mafia building was _not_ productive right now.

“Maybe I should-” she said right at the moment when loud meowing, growling, and hissing came from the corridor, and Parker appeared again with Orion squeezed under her elbow. Damn, that was fast, _she_ would have had trouble making him come and letting her take him. Parker marched to her and gave her the cat with both hands, and Florence resisted the urge to pinch her hand to see if she was an android. The frightened cat stared at the blonde in disbelief.

Parker disappeared again and returned with his toilet and a bag of food. Florence didn’t miss the pretty discouraged look in Ford’s eyes – he obviously wasn’t used to pets. Well, he asked for it.

“It’s late, and all the important things can be discussed in the morning.” Ford got up and nodded to Hardison and Parker. “You two, go.” Hardison, who had been typing since he said his last words, just nodded, typing even as he got up.

“Sophie will take care of the sleeping arrangements while you finish your tea,” Ford continued. “Try to rest. You’re safe here.”

Somehow, Florence couldn’t think about safety; she just hugged Orion and drifted away with an android mutant mafia gang pilot forming in her drowsy head.

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***

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When Sophie tiptoed down the stairs, she half expected to find Nate still sleeping on the sofa, and Eliot awake and reading something.  During the past few days, while she was here over the night, she didn’t even once catch him sleeping. She even set the alarm twice in one night and went to check on him; he was watching TV. She wasn’t surprised when she found him awake, but Nate at the table, with coffee, was cause for alarm.  Hardison, this early in the morning, was another alarming sign.

The hacker was sitting in a chair next to Eliot’s bed, with a headset. Eliot had a headset, too, and he was using one finger to slowly poke at the laptop that Hardison forced him to use instead of his phone, annoying the hell out of the hacker. Probably intentionally.

They were sulking, both of them, she realized when they just nodded to her and continued to glare into their screens.

“Morning. What they have done _now_?” she asked Nate.

“Talked. What else do you think they need to start a fight?” he murmured, putting away some papers he was looking at. “Hardison was enthusiastic about a new job. No. Hardison was enthusiastic. Period. And Eliot started to fume the moment he saw his smile when he entered. It took only four minutes ‘til the explosion. I counted.”

“They woke you up,” she realized with a smile, noticing his slightly unfocused stare.

“Nope, Orion tried to cuddle. And it was over two hours ago.”

He didn’t just _try_ , she thought, seeing the white fur all over his black shirt. She glanced around, finding the white cat perched on the shelf above Hardison and Eliot, controlling the entire room.

“So…” Sophie elbowed the table, propped her chin on her hands and smiled.

“No,” he said firmly, but his mouth twitched into a smile, completely involuntarily.

“Why?”

“Too early.”

“This one can be done without a hitter.”

“I think last night proved you wrong,” he pointed out. “Besides, do you want to hear what Eliot told Hardison when he said that to him? I must warn you, it was connected to a certain body par-”

“Not… exactly,” she frowned. “So, you will do nothing to help her?

“I didn’t say that. I’m trying to find a way to get a job done, without _doing_ the job.”

She glanced at the other end of the room and lowered her voice, pretty sure that both headsets were off. “You think you can mask the job into… solving this without doing anything, and that he’ll just say: That’s great, do continue, I’ll just sit and watch you trying?”

“There are two reasons to do this – the first, we can’t let her be killed, right? The second, keeping him occupied with something more than cooking will be useful. On the other hand, it’s extremely stupid to do anything so shortly after all this cartel mess, particularly not something that might draw attention to us again. So I called Bonnano. He left just minutes before you came down,” he pointed at the papers and she took them… Eliot’s and Florence’s statements, already signed. “There was no need to wake her up, it’s just a formality. I thought over all that police stuff – this attack had to be recorded.”

“And Eliot said what?” she asked.

He sighed. “He… agreed, sort of… that simply collecting evidence might not prove too dangerous. If we keep our part to mainly helping the police with a different point of view, and eventually Hardison doing some hacking.”

“You think the police can solve this before they try again?”

“No. Patrick said it’s too thin. Hardison caught both attackers on two street cameras on the block, without masks, but there’s no way to prove that it was those two, and not two wandering guys wearing black. Beside that, the images were too poor for facial recognition.”

“We all saw their faces.”

“And they saw ours, Sophie.”

“So why involve the police?” she asked, confused.

“Because this is nothing, but it might be something when added to something else.”

“Nothing and something and something makes…?”

“A case,” he smiled. “We can’t prove even they were sent to kill her, and not to rob her, much less connect them to that Winslow guy. I said, _prove_. Patrick needs a solid case to press charges and get the warrant.”

“Bloody hell,” she smiled. “We’re not doing a job… we are doing an investigation.”

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***

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“Dig deeper. There must be something else.” Ford’s voice was the first thing Florence heard when she exited the bedroom and prepared herself to climb down the stairs; she wasn’t expecting to hear all of them, again, so early in the morning.

“Hold up, man, my little web crawlers aren’t that damn fast. Flawless, yes, but fast they ain’t. If you rush them they get nervous and-”

“Hardison…”

“Yeah, I hear ya’. I have one funny thing… this guy screwed Spielberg once. Last millennium business, they were all still working from the garage, I guess, they had glasses like nerds and funny hai-”

“Spielberg…you mean Steven Spielberg? Anything we can use?”

“It’s ancient history, over thirty years ago, so I don’t think it’s releva- you know, morning grumpiness isn’t _that_ cute!”

Hardison’s voice wasn’t at all like she was used to hearing him, just like Sophie’s went from slightly British to Russian in less than a second the previous night in the corridor; Florence sighed realizing she was in the hands of professional conmen. God knew she wrote numerous conmen, all bad guys that were dealt with efficiently, and justice was always served. But, these saved her life and offered her shelter for the night. She couldn’t think of anything they might want from her in return.

“Meow?”

“Parker, that ball was for the cat, bring it back.” Eliot’s voice sounded irritated.

“He was slow.”

“Meow?”

“You’re a cat, you’re supposed to be faster than humans. It’s not my fault-”

“Parker!!”

That decided it; Florence took one deep breath, and climbed down the stairs.

“Good morning,” she murmured, watching Orion and Parker chasing one of the dozens tin foil balls that were scattered all over the giant room. Orion looked like he was in a cat’s heaven – someone was playing _with_ him, actively.

She nodded at their greetings and stood frozen, suddenly realizing what was on one of the huge screens – her carefully hidden data, a short video clip of Michael Winslow talking about money he took for pushing three other shows and canceling hers. Hardison was standing in front of the screens and doing something on his tablet, paying no attention to the race around him.

“How?” she stuttered.

Hardison smiled – a broad, lazy smile. “Orion? Seriously? Everybody knows what Orion’s belt is, Florence, The Men in Black are canon.” He held up a tiny USB drive that was, until this morning, safe on the necklace around Orion’s neck, and she sighed again.

“And what more are you digging for, isn’t it enough?”

“Hardison is doing a thorough background search,” Ford explained, hitting one ball while going back to the dining table. “Join us. Coffee and breakfast.”

Florence glanced at the bed and Eliot covered with the tin foil; he was making the balls while seemingly looking okay; yet, Florence couldn’t not think that his condition must have been more serious than it looked like. He didn’t make any attempt to stand up, and knowing men, only dying could keep them in bed. She noticed the oxygen mask on the bed near his hand, attached to a small cylinder, and not for the first time she asked herself how much, exactly, that man had risked when he faced the two attackers.

She sent him a grateful smile; it was nice of him to keep Orion occupied… yet, when she looked again at the blonde who seemed to enjoy playing with the cat much more than the cat did, she suddenly wasn’t sure whom he was trying to occupy.

“You will research me, too?” she asked Ford when she sat at the table, and Sophie poured her coffee.

“Already done it,” Hardison said cheerfully. “I did a background check when you bought the apartment last year, and the fact you were away for months while shooting was the main thing, not the price you offered.”

“So no curious neighbor could stick her nose in your suspicious activities?” she smiled back.

“Con–sul-ting,” he repeated. “We are a respectable-” he stopped, grimaced, and bent over in a loud sneeze. “I think I might be allergic to your-”

“Hardison.” Nate sighed.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m on it.” He turned his back to them and concentrated on the big screens again, every one displaying different data now.

“Tell us what’s happening,” Sophie said just that, with a small, gentle smile, and Florence felt stunned by the urge to trust them, to tell the beautiful, warm woman everything what troubled her – but she held back. The magic that radiated from Sophie was a professional one, directed to gain her trust. Yet, what choice did she have? They already knew too much.

“I’m an author, a writer and co-producer of C4’s TV show The Magnificent Seven: The Next Generation,” she said slowly. “Just like Sherlock – you take characters and put them in present time. In New York.”

“I’m afraid I’m not familiar with…I mean, I’ve never heard of it before.”

“No wonder you haven’t heard of M7, because it’s just a small show on a cable network that many people don’t know even exists… But you’ve heard about NCIS on CBS, right?  The entire country watches CBS.” She waited until Sophie nodded, then continued. “The last episode of NCIS had 20 million viewers… but the season finale of my show had 3.4 million viewers.”

“For C4, those are great numbers,” Hardison said.

She darted him a grateful look. “Yet, as you’ve already seen, the show that Michael Winslow mentioned in the recording, is M7. I’m waiting for an official, public statement about the cancellation.”

Ford leaned forward a little in his chair. “I listened to the recording several times, and I’m afraid there isn’t sufficient proof that he is talking about an _illegal_ replacement of your show. His words, and any lawyer would be happy to prove it, can be understood as a common financial profit from those three new shows, not for him, but for a company.”

“I know. That’s why I didn’t take it to the police immediately when Charlie brought it to me. They didn’t know he was still on the set with his camera on.” She lowered her eyes to her cup. “Maybe he would still be alive if I did,” she finished, feeling her voice beginning to waver. “He made a mistake, he let them know he recorded them – the next day he was killed by robbers in his home. When they didn’t find the recording, they knew I got it.” She raised her eyes to see what impact her words left, but she met two calm and thoughtful pairs of eyes.

“It might have been a coincidence, if there wasn’t those two after you the last night,” Ford said slowly. “What else do you have?”

“I created a fake e-mail account under Winslow’s name, went to his office while they were in a meeting, and called the secretaries of the production companies of the new shows, all three of them. I told them to send the last five e-mail conversations to that e-mail address because someone hacked his account.”

“Oh, you were grifting, dear,” Sophie smiled.

“ Yes. I wrote… and killed… many grifters,” she smiled back. “They are the favorite bad guys for my seven heroes.”

“How fascinating.” Sophie’s smile was sparked with real delight now.

“I found those e-mails on the USB,” Hardison jumped in. “But, there’s nothing incriminating, as far as I could see.”

“Pull up the third, the last sent e-mail from LiveSurvival.” Florence turned around in her chair. “See that small paragraph about acquiring the ownership rights? Don’t forget, it’s the television industry – they don’t exchange the bags full of money in back alleys. Michael Winslow is the head of programming at C4 and the Board of Directors trust his judgment. If he says that launching one more reality show will bring money, they’ll go for it. After the transfer deed, he’ll have a percentage of all the merchandise, every DVD that LiveSurvival sells. We are talking about millions. That crap is more popular than NCIS, I can assure you.”

“So,” Ford tented his fingers, still watching her. “Let’s put aside the killing of your cameraman… how can you prove your show, with 3 million, would get the next season? Replacing it with something that brings 20 million viewers sounds like a good move.”

“It surely does,” she said bitterly. “He won’t have problems persuading the Board of Directors, especially because the average season ratings dropped 11%. This has been long planned, Mr. Ford. He’s been sabotaging M7 for months. He changed airing times and days, canceled all the promoting, put my episodes on at the same time when other hit shows were being aired, promos were terrible… have you seen the promo for season Five? Seven heads in vintage frames, on a dirty yellow background? When the fans saw that…Jesus, they were pissed. Every teenager with Photoshop could make a masterpiece. Fans did the job for C4 – promoting, voting, spreading the word, they were busy the entire year. If C4 did their job, the ratings would go up. He did everything he could to lower my ratings, so he could use the lower ratings as a cause for the cancellation.” She took a deep breath, trying to calm down, but it was useless. “I have so many more stories to tell,” she continued quieter. “The show isn’t dead. The fan base is growing, and you can trust me, I’ve never seen such a dedicated bunch of people. I can’t let them down. And the most important thing, I can’t let down my crew. For five years, the show fed many families –five years we were building something great, something that… made a difference. Fans are very selective, you can’t keep them if you don’t deliver what they need. I gave them justice. We, all of us, gave them the justice, someone who fought against the bad guys. M7 novels are in the Top Ten on Amazon, people want more. It’s alive. Canceling it now, it’s…it’s like murdering a live being. I can’t let them do it.” Florence bit her lip, feeling the tears gathering in her eyes, pissed off because of that weakness… she _wouldn’t_ cry in front of them. But Ford said nothing when she finished, he just nodded to Hardison and poured her more coffee.

She waited until her voice was strong again, and continued. “PVA – People’s Voice Awards… it might save the show, if we win The Best Cable Drama. But we have no chance, we are against The Walking Dead-” Hardison’s squeak interrupted her words. “What?”

He shook his head. “If you had about 3 million viewers in the US… The Walking Dead has that many viewers in just New York. The entire world watches The Walking Dead…. nope, you don’t have a chance. You know that those 3 millions make only 300 – 1000 people who actually care, vote, promote and raise attention?”

“I know all that,” she gritted her teeth. “But the fans don’t. They are still striving, voting for hours, they are doing everything possible. They've organized in Facebook groups, on Live Journal, on Twitter, Tumblr – they tweet everything they do so I know.”

“Ah, fandoms…” Hardison’s voice went soft, as if touched by pleasant memories.

“Florence.” Ford’s voice brought her back, he looked very serious. “You _do_ realize that you spent one minute on your own murder attempt, and all the rest on how important it is to save your show?”

She blinked, stunned, then glanced back over her shoulder to Hardison. He understood, she knew that when she saw his smile.

“It’s connected…” she begun, thinking. “If he can be stopped, if there’s enough evidence to accuse him of Charlie’s death, it will automatically stop all his actions against M7, and make all his decisions irrelevant. And, ah, yes, I will live,” she added watching Ford’s eyebrows going up.

Ford played with his cup for a few seconds, then sighed. “Okay. Do you _want_ us to help you?”

Oh, she knew that wasn’t being said lightly.

 _Consulting my ass…_ she had no idea who these people were. One was shot, they were strange, her landlord wasn’t… her landlord, her neighbor wasn’t a man from who she might ask for some sugar in the middle of the night, this woman was dangerous as hell, and that blonde was an android psychopath…

Yet, she was here with them, alive, saved… and feeling safe. That was the most amazing part. She didn’t trust them to be some consulting agency, they were probably criminals… but she _knew_ they would do no harm. _Great, the famous last words of a known TV writer, after her body parts were found in her neighbor's bathtub – the best parts used for lunch_. _With fennel._ She suppressed a giggle and tried to straighten her face, watching Ford’s face becoming slightly surprised at her reaction.

“If you can help me, I would be very grateful,” she said solemnly. “Do we need a contract? What do you want in return? My firstborn-” she covered her mouth, but too late, the giggle escaped. “I’m sorry. I’m just… very bad in staying serious when the going gets tough. Maybe I should write black comedies instead.”

“What do we want in return?” Ford thought for a second, then smiled. “Let’s just say, we are selfishly helping you because we are scared of more killers in our peaceful corridor.”

“You know, I can…” Hardison sounded as if he was hesitating for a second. “That PVA voting, you know… if it proves necessary I can, I might… there are ways to…”

“Not now, Hardison.” Ford stopped his words. “Later, maybe, I’ll keep that in mind.”

“And what now?” Florence asked when nobody moved.

“Nothing,” Sophie smiled. “We’ll finish the coffee, you’ll go to your apartment and take everything you need for a few days, and then we’ll talk again. We are already working, don’t worry, though it seems... and what the hell do you think you’re doing?” Sophie’s sudden turn was addressed to Eliot, who was standing two steps from them – those people really all walked without any noise. “You’re aware that Betsy will come soon, and you have to look normal and as if nothing happened?”

“Potatoes. Peeling. Cutting bacon. Chopping the fennel. It’s called lunch. I can deal with Betsy.”

“Yes, of course you can. That’ll be the day-” Sophie gasped. “You're going to cook that horrible stinky-”

“It won’t smell now, the worst part is over,” he said, moving behind the kitchen counter. He was stable and straight, but his every move seemed to be thought out before he made it. Florence caught one quick exchange of even glances between Sophie and Ford, but no one offered to help the only one who wasn’t in shape to peel potatoes for six people. There was something in their covert, silent worry that was telling stories definitely worth exploring… but not now.

“Hardison, set up the cameras and the motion sensors in the corridor,” Eliot continued. “And when she goes to collect her stuff, I’m going with her.”

“Ha!” Parker’s voice from somewhere behind her, surprisingly, made her shudder. “Stupid.”

“Already on it,” Hardison said. “Though, if these two return again, we can freely send Parker to deal with them.”

Eliot stopped whatever he was doing, sending Hardison an irritated look. “Those two have killed before, and not with a knife. They used the knives to make it look like a burglary gone bad, that’s why they were so reluctant and clumsy while fighting, their minds were set on drawing the guns instead. And don’t be fooled by their retreat – tactically, they did everything impeccably.”

“What?” Sophie asked. “You beat them, they were held hostage, scared, threatened in vain and ran away when you gave the gun to a woman?”

“Precisely,” he waited, but she just shook her head, so he continued. “I would’ve done the same, and they passed the test. Only a trained professional knows how dangerous amateurs can be, an ignorant would think he could deal with her. The one who held you assessed his every decision, trying a few approaches, taking the correct time to value efficacy, immediately going to the next one. Their retreat was not fleeing. It was just a necessary step. We’ll see them again. With the guns. And I do hope their companions are not of same training and skill.”

“Do you want good news, or the bad news first?” Hardison used a little pause at the end of his speech. When they all turned to him, he pointed to the screens, and a group of people in dark green uniforms in front of a large building. “Meet Dvorak Security. This is the only picture that shows the employees, and note how the emphasis is on the building, the faces are too distant and too low quality to be recognized.”

“The dark green uniforms are the security for our sets and shooting locations, and C4's main building,” said Florence. “We never had any incidents with them, in fact, they are excellent and professional, very nice… you don’t say that those two were…”

“And now, bad news.” Hardison grinned and pulled up one image from her recording that clearly showed Winslow and a man with whom he was talking. He cleared the image and displayed results: Robert Knudsen, CEO of Dvorak Security. “This is interesting… Eliot, will you stop chopping that green thing for a second?”

“ _Fennel_. Why?” The sounds didn’t stop.

“I don’t want you to cut yourself.” Hardison’s grin vanished. “In spite of the Scandinavian name, this man is Don Lazzara’s loving nephew.”

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	4. Chapter 4

***

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Well, Don Lazzara’s name silenced the quick chopping sounds. Florence glanced at the kitchen. Eliot was just standing there, caught in the middle of the unfinished move. For a few seconds the silence was so thick that she had to clear her throat to break it.

Sophie was suddenly studying her cup and Parker came from somewhere behind her and sat at the table, glancing at Sophie and Ford in turns. Ford and Eliot… well, they were obviously involved in a very intense silent conversation, according to the steadiness of their stares. She had no idea what conclusion they made, but it ended with Eliot thrusting the knife into the kitchen counter. It vibrated, adding a very musical background to his mad eyes.

She knew who Don Lazzara was, of course, his name was often mentioned in certain circles. Suspected to be the head of Boston, and not only the Boston Mob, elegant, nice, polite, always smiling Don Lazzara… she completely understood why they would hesitate to even go near him. Yet, they showed no worry or fear, just frustration.

“The connections _can_ be avoided,” Ford’s voice was very carefully modulated.

“Right,” Eliot’s answer came harsh. “What part of ‘keeping a low profile’ you did not understand?”

“What part of ‘only providing evidence’ did _you_ not understand?”

Florence cleared her throat again. “You don’t have to…” she started but went silent when both of them turned to her. It wasn’t about her, she realized. It wasn’t about _this_ job. They clearly had met Don Lazzara before, and yet they weren’t scared… she blinked once, remembering the mess a few days ago, when Boston was a war zone, when citizens were warned to stay in their houses during the night, when every single gang and cartel in town was on the streets, killing each other… including the Italians. They were all _involved_ in that, and Eliot wasn’t just caught in the wrong place by accident.

“It’s okay, Florence,” Ford said calmly. “Eliot is just worried because of the security and risks involved, that’s all. He makes this show every time we plan something.”

“Of course.” In spite of all Eliot’s effort, his smile looked a little forced. “It’s the just usual…” he glanced at others and sighed. “… never mind,” he finished with a low growl.

Curiosity prodded her, mulling on their words, but she just dulled her face and smiled.

“Why do you have three phones?” Parker asked her, watching her with her head tilted a little. That girl had _very_ intense eyes.

Florence just blinked, having no idea of what she was talking about, or how she would know what she had in her pockets, being across the table… and then it dawned on her. She had collected two phones from the fallen attackers last night, the only thing they had with them. “How did you…” she stopped pulling them out, remembering about prints too late. “I forgot about this,” she said to Eliot. “When you said to search them, they only had the phones.”

“And _you_ forgot that we have their phones?” Hardison quickly came and snatched them from her hand.

“I kinda missed very large parts of what was happening after the fight.” Eliot’s answer was acrid, but Hardison just huffed and went back with his treasure.

“You have your show here? On DVDs or copies?” Ford’s calm voice silenced all. “We’ll have to watch it.”

“Yes, the official DVDs of all five seasons. Why? It won’t tell you anything about Michael Winslow,” Florence said, and at the moment Ford smiled, she knew he didn’t need an insight in _Winslow’s_ brain and way of thinking.

Just great. She reminded herself to show them all the episodes that dealt with various grifters and conmen, to show them what she was capable of… just in case.

“Let’s see what we have here for now,” Ford continued. “One recording that can’t be used because it’s not clear enough that Winslow was preparing something illegal. One murder that looked like a robbery. One murder attempt that still might be a plain robbery. Five e-mails, stolen from Winslow, which can’t be used as evidence, and which also don’t say anything very incriminating. One knife without prints. Two phones-”

“With nothing. Burners,” Hardison interrupted. “The last call from one of them goes to some another burner, untraceable.”

“Two phones, with nothing,” Ford repeated. “And, we have one writer with a wild imagination, versed in crime stories,” he finished.

Florence almost fell on that. _Almost_. The rage boiled in a second, but then she met his calm eyes that were pinning her, and she smiled. “This plot, Mr. Ford,” she said slowly. “Would make one lousy episode. Give me some credit. If I made this up, trust me, I would come up with a plot for a season fucking finale, not this…this…inconclusive crap.”

She returned his gaze without blinking.

“Call me Nate,” he smiled finally. “More coffee?”

.

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***

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Though Sophie said they were already working on her case, Florence had serious doubts about it. Ford was reading the newspaper, Parker was doing something with three sheaves and ropes, and Sophie was sitting at the kitchen counter, watching over the potatoes that were boiling on the stove. Eliot returned to the bed, and maybe he was the reason they were so silent, because he kept his eyes closed, though she suspected he was sleeping. Hardison was the only one occupied with the things connected to her case, but his screens tilted too fast for her, she couldn’t catch anything recognizable.

She was carefully munching cereal, preparing herself for that hideous lunch, knowing that her stomach still suffered the vodka from the last night. At least the headache wasn’t terrible.

She was grateful for this time of peace; having been left alone, she could think about all this. About them.

“Where’s Parker?” Eliot suddenly asked, not opening his eyes. Everybody turned around, but the blonde wasn’t in sight. Florence could swear she saw her with the ropes only fifteen seconds ago.

“Maybe she went upstairs…” Sophie started reluctantly.

“The hell she did,” he cursed under his breath and slowly sat up in the bed. “Hardison, the corridor cameras.”

One screen immediately blinked with a pretty good recording of the well known corridor, showing Parker who was filling bags, going in and out of apartment B2. Florence didn’t know what to say, and what to think about the unknown girl rummaging through her closets. Before she could react in any way, Parker entered, carrying four bags. Eliot was already near the door, and she didn’t notice him getting up, or hear him walking. Again.

“Move out the way,” Parker said shortly. “Or hold the door, I have two more in the corridor.”

“Of all stupid things, Parker-”

She dropped the bags in front of Eliot and frowned. “Stupid? I came in here and took Old Nate from the wall, _while_ four Chileans were watching the game on the screens, right there, waiting for-” she stopped, looked Florence directly into the eyes, and decided not to finish. “And I did it four times! The two guys with guns wouldn’t notice me if they returned, you idiot! But they would surely notice you, and her!”

“That was kind of the point.” He sounded beyond irritated. Florence could bet that more irritation in someone’s voice wasn’t humanly possible.

“Well, I missed that point. Going next door for few things is the job for…” another glance in her direction “… someone like me. Not for someone like you – and if you want to argue about the risks of the situation, and pull the ‘listen to the professional judgment’ card, well this time you just heard one, very professional. Okay?”

Florence had no idea what to think about this, so she checked the others; Hardison’s eyes were wide open, Nate’s eyebrows were up, and Sophie was biting back a smile… obviously this wasn’t something usual. Even Eliot just stood there and stared at Parker, having nothing to say.

The blonde went a step closer and poked him mercilessly, her eyes even more narrowed. “If you want to spend accumulated energy, buy yourself a stress ball, instead of going after the guys with _guns_ , just to do something.”

“Don’t push your luck too far, Parker.” His voice was low now, very low and deadly quiet, but it seemed to have no impact on her.

“You’re the one who said they knew what they were doing, and that they’ll return with the guns this time. My level of… of… expertise… can deal with them. Yours. Can't. Now.  The key word is avoid, not fight.”

The soft clicking of high heels was the only sound that broke the sudden silence; Sophie went closer and just stood there, one step away from them while they darted murderous stares at each other. Florence watched, fascinated – Sophie did absolutely nothing, she just _was_ there, watching them with a smile, and that was enough to soften their postures.  The silence spread for ten more seconds, and Eliot was the first to break it.

“Move,” he motioned to the door, his voice still low but much softer. He followed Parker to the corridor and waited at the door until she brought in everything she collected. Florence didn’t miss Hardison’s frantic search through the various cameras, in the building and in the streets that surrounded it.

“What if they were alone?” she asked Hardison quietly.

Hardison squinted, as if he remembered something unpleasant. “The last time they were alone, a few days ago… it didn’t end well.” He paused, but when she waited for more, he sighed and went on. “They both had guns,” he explained quickly and turned away from her to the screens.

Hah, maybe the android shot him, and not some random dude on the street, Florence thought while plucking through the bags to see what Parker had retrieved.  The DVD boxes were stuck in along with her dresses and boots. Jesus, she put her laptop with her underwear.

“Uh-oh,” said Hardison and they all looked at him. “Eliot. Bed. Now.” He quickly turned off all the data he was watching, and put cartoons on all of the screens. “Florence, listen carefully - we are _not_ doing any job, and you’re here just for coffee, a visiting neighbor. Okay? Parker, hide her bags. ETA, one minute.”

“And hide cat’s toilet,” Nate said, folding the newspapers.

Florence watched them, confused. Sophie hurried to Eliot who sat in the bed, removing the pieces of tin foil, eyeing him critically. “You look completely normal,” she said. “You don’t have to worry – just smile and speak as always. I’m sure she wouldn’t notice anything unusual, nothing is bleeding, there’re no traces of anything.”

“Wanna bet?” he asked.

Sophie stood quiet for a few seconds. “No,” she said finally, and straightened his blanket before she returned to the table. Hardison and Parker were already sitting with the cups and Florence joined them.

Nate, slowly, went to open the door when the door bell rang.

Florence didn’t expect a slender, middle-aged black woman – from the introduction she half expected an axe murderer with thirty tattoos.

“Who is she?” she whispered to Hardison.

“Eliot’s nurse,” Hardison whispered back. “Act natural, and avoid eye contact.”

Florence watched her approaching – all of them were still, not moving, just smiling and looking content and relaxed at their morning coffee, even Parker.

“Morning, Betsy,” Sophie smiled. “Coffee first?”

“Maybe later, I had one already.” The woman put her purse and shopping bag with groceries on an empty chair, and Nate helped her with her jacket.

“This is our neighbor, Florence McCoy,” he explained. “She is… erm, familiar with the outcome of last week’s trouble. With the basics only, to be precise.”

Florence shook hands with Betsy, exchanging smiles, wondering why they were all tensed – the woman had beautiful, tender eyes, soft and warm like velvet. And her smile was gentle and even warmer.

“You are all in a pretty good mood this morning,” Betsy smiled, watching them, glancing at Eliot. “Are you putting weed in their food?”

“Not yet,” he smiled back. “They are just trying to look normal in front of another human being. You received the duck I sent you?”

“Yes, thank you, now I have five and I put them by the pond…” Betsy quietly paused and tilted her head a little, watching him. Florence felt Hardison stiffing, and the smile on Sophie’s face became frozen. “Changing the subject even before we had any subject to change, Eliot?” she continued.

“What subject?” he blinked, with genuine surprise.

Her eyes were pinning Eliot, who didn’t move, didn’t change his smile, who did nothing at all – and yet Florence felt the desperation like a cloud all around him.

Betsy watched him for five seconds, then she turned to them again, assessing their smiles. Only Florence smiled cheerfully; the phrase ‘blissful ignorance’ once again came to her mind.

Betsy said nothing more, she just went closer to Eliot, and circled around the bed like a vulture observing her half dead prey. Eliot rolled his eyes but said nothing.

“How are you feeling this morning?” she purred when she stopped, facing him again.

“A little better than yesterday.”

“Is that so?” Betsy shook her head. “Let’s see… you have one more pillow behind your back, because it’s too exhausting to keep your weight up without help. It wasn’t necessary yesterday, but today you’re too weak to sit up by yourself. You’re completely stiff and you're breathing one third shallower than yesterday, because it hurts. And you’re not able to stretch your back completely, your right shoulder is two inches lower and your head tilted to the right, what means you’re unknowingly protecting a wound that also, what a surprise, hurts. The oxygen mask was used, and you haven’t needed it for the last three days. Further, your right hand is casually resting on the blanket, completely relaxed and with your palm up – a pathetic try to cover up misuse; you did that exactly three times in the hospital, every time after you did something that almost ripped your stitches apart. And, according to those shadows beneath your eyes, you haven’t slept one minute last night.” She turned around to look at them at the table. “Someone care to explain what happened, and why his recovery has suddenly regressed to, like, four days ago?”

“You see, there was that…” Sophie tried, but trailed off into silence when Betsy looked at her.

“Yes?” she encouraged her, but Sophie waved to Nate and shrugged.

“An incident,” Nate said firmly. “A small one, nothing to worry about. And I can assure you, it definitely wasn’t his fault.”

“I see.” A calm smile appeared on her lips, and Hardison jumped to his feet, pulling Florence and Parker after him.

“We have to go to her apartment to do various complicated things that have to be done with her computer,” he quickly explained, his hand pushing her in the back to move. “You two stay, we don’t need you… Eliot, don’t try to protest, I have all the cameras on my phone, everything is covered, and being watched.” They were at the door when he finished his sentence, and when he closed the door behind them, the only thing they could hear were muffled voices, all speaking at the same time.

“We’ll just wait here in front of the door for a few minutes, until she calms down,” he explained when Florence looked at him.

“But, isn’t it understandable that he-”

“She forbid _everything,_ ” Hardison whispered, leaning his ear on the door. “She allowed him to go to the kitchen and bathroom, and back, nothing more. He is too weak, he has to rest after every walk, and if he overdoes it now, he’ll deteriorate all the progress he’d made so far – and she is very strict about it. Knocking out two killers with knives – and I know, I just _know_ she’ll draw that from him – geez, the force field of Sauron from the Prologue of the Lord of the Rings is nothing comparing to her wrath.”

“Why can’t he say he just tried to practice, or walk a little more, or-”

“He’s unable to lie to her, have no idea why.” Hardison thought for a second. “We are _all_ unable to lie to her – and we lie for a living. It’s a deeply discouraging thought.”

“I like her,” Parker said, her arms crossed in disapproval. “She’s the only one who can cope with him, and make him do necessary things.”

“No wonder. That woman is Sauron with Moriarty’s mind, you hear me?”

He had to jump away when the door opened and Sophie hurried out.

“I’m not really needed in there, Nate can take care of that,” she quickly explained. “Besides, she’s right, it _was_ reckless.”

“Nah, it had to be done, reckless or not, and you know it.”

“Still-” Sophie broke off when they heard a pissed off voice from the apartment. “ _You did what?!”_

Nate showed up at the door, bringing his coffee with him.

“He signaled me to leave,” he said, shrugging. “Though, I’m not quite sure if it was diving on a grenade, or if he had some backup plan… we’ll see. If he manages to calm her dow-”

“ _Fucking  KNIVES?!?”_ The voice became a howl.

“So, the grenade it is,” Nate sighed.

“Yep, definitely the grenade.” Hardison squinted.

They listened, but the voices were much quieter now, they couldn’t understand any word.

Hardison checked his phone, probably watching the cameras to see if someone was coming. It would be a really nice touch to meet those two again, this time with guns, when the one who could deal with them was inside, and all of them were out here.

“I’m not so sure anymore if this silence is a good, or a bad sign,” Sophie said carefully after two more minutes of non-yelling.

“Hey!” Hardison said like he remembered something and started pressing buttons. “Parker2000 will help,” he said, typing quickly. “Maybe if I drive it on the floor, she’ll get distracted and tear it apart instead of – ohmyfuckinggod!” Sophie managed to catch his phone when he dropped it. “The Eye! I knew it!”

Florence tried to peek at it, but door opened once more. Betsy was holding a strange green toy right in front of her face, using one eye to eye something that looked like its face. She didn’t have to peek at the phone anymore, she knew what image Hardison saw.

“Eliot said to give it to you,” Betsy said calmly, pushing the toy into Hardison’s hands. “And he said you can come back.” She turned around and went back.

“Did she just win a staring contest with a robot?” Hardison asked, perplexed. “Did she?” He looked into the toy’s face, and hugged it closely. “Even robots can have trauma, you know…” he continued to murmur quietly, following them back into the apartment.

Eliot was alive, unharmed, and absolutely calm.

“I can’t trust him to act responsible,” Betsy said with a sigh. “He’ll do it again. Nate, can you keep him out of this thing you’re working on now?”

“We are not working on-” Hardison tried to answer before Nate, but Betsy shook her head.

“Two guys in front of your door, and your neighbor having a regular visit, consequently? With her cat? You’re messing with something, and it’s too early.”

“Whatever we do, his condition will be calculated into it, don’t worry,” Nate said.

“Oh, I’m not worried,” her smile was wolfish now. “Parker, dear…” she looked at the blonde and they exchanged grins. “Will you take care of that?”

“Hey!” Eliot’s calm was destroyed in a second. “What the hell-”

“I won’t be able to come tomorrow, so I need someone cruel enough to keep you from trouble. Which wouldn’t be necessary if you were able to do it yourself,” she said taking her jacket. “Just in case, let’s repeat the basics… no skipping the medicine, only getting up three times per day, one walk of five minutes tops, avoiding using the right arm, oxygen if needed, and rest. By rest, I mean 23.5 hours of it. Is that clear?”

“Crystal clear.” Eliot’s smile was brilliant.

“You see?” Betsy nodded to Nate.

“I have to _live with that_ , Betsy.”

Betsy stopped near Florence on her way out, and she squinted a little. No matter how calm and gentle her eyes were, she felt piercing. She observed her with significant thoughtfulness for a few seconds, and Florence could only smile, waiting for the verdict that never came.

“See you in two days.” And she was gone.

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***

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The fight with Betsy went much better than he expected; she missed exactly five potentially dangerous clues. She might have been distracted by the unknown woman.   
Eliot wasn’t, however, looking forward to fighting with Parker and her sense of rightfulness, twisted even at the best of times. Betsy wasn’t quite aware what she unleashed on him, but he knew very well that he had to watch his back. Literally.

He noticed that he wasn’t the only one who knew that. When Nate went to escort Betsy out, he went back by Parker’s place with the ropes and locks, and took away the taser while she was sitting with Sophie and Florence.

Eliot closed his eyes and tried to drift away – this morning was too exhausting already, and he felt that the rest of the day wouldn’t be any different, but he was too worried to relax.

He knew Nate would do anything to keep this as benign as possible, and that everything they did would be adjusted to this weird situation, but it wasn’t Plan A that scared him. He could count on one hand how many times they managed to pull off Plan A without trouble, and every time Nate got past G in the alphabet, things were badly going south. The fact that this time, when that happened, he wouldn’t be able to do anything, maybe not even be near, was tying his stomach in knots.

He wasn’t fooled by the quiet and slow start – Hardison was doing all the necessary steps, retrieving data, plans, potential targets, security details, preparing everything for the beginning of the con, and with every new piece of information that flashed on the screens, Eliot was feeling more restless. And angry. Mostly at himself – but no matter how many times he went through the last night’s events in his head, he couldn’t find anything else that he could have done in that damn corridor. Letting that woman be killed was out of the question, as much as letting her go without helping with her troubles was… and that only strengthened the dreadful feeling he had about all this.

 _Stress ball, right_. That would surely help to ease the fear. Right now, he was felt like tearing the bed apart, and using its parts to knock down all the walls that surrounded him, until every single brick was crushed to dust.  And this was just the beginning; they hadn’t even started to do anything.

“Can you explain to me one thing?” Hardison’s voice stirred him from thinking, and he was almost grateful for that. Yet, when he saw his grin, he quickly changed his mind. “What kind of a duck did you send to Betsy?”

Yeah, it would be very strange that Hardison didn’t notice _that_. He contemplated a few evasion tactics, but it seemed pointless – if Hardison sensed he was deceiving him, it would only make him more curious. “She hates phones,” he said slowly, glancing at the table where the others were sitting, not even pretending they weren’t listening.

“That’s cool,” Hardison said. “But, forgive me if I don’t see a connection-”

“So she wanted some other way of communication,” he said carefully. “And that ended up with duck sending. I’m not quite sure how it happened. Will you go away now?”

“Does the duck have a name?” Parker chirped from the table. “You named a plant George. The duck must have-”

“Wait, wait,” Hardison’s grin broadened. “You’re not getting away with this… what kind of communication?”

Damn, the best way to finish with this was quick and painless, directly to the head, but he felt his teeth gritting. He had to physically relax his face to answer. “Facebook. She made me create a Facebook account. Enough?”

The look at Hardison’s face would have been priceless if Parker’s giggle wasn’t so ominous.

“Who are you and what you have done with Eliot?” Hardison said slowly. “I knew it…alien abduction. You were replaced in that damn hospital, and we brought home an intrud-”

“Cut the crazy, will ya?” he suppressed growling, but barely.  “I’d like to see _you_ saying no to her.”

“Please, tell me you didn’t make the account as Eliot Spencer, with your picture-”

“Are you nuts?!”

Hardison turned to the table. “Nate, this is serious… we can’t let him stagger online without supervision, for God’s sake, who knows where he can end up eventually. Jesus.” He turned to him again, and a hint of the real worry could be clearly seen under his grin. That made this fiasco a little more interesting... in fact, that just opened up a few possibilities to turn this in his favor.

“What are you trying to say… that accepting friend requests might be dangerous?” he asked quietly.

“What kind of friend requests?” Hardison cautiously asked.

“Dunno… after Betsy, it seems that every single nurse in Mass Gen sent me requests – they are all connected. That’s how I ended up with the duck,” he sighed, carefully arranging his face into a half confused, half annoyed expression. “Nobody told me that I don’t have to accept every game request they send me.”

“Farmville,” Hardison whispered. “You’re playing _Farmville_ with Betsy. Somebody shoot me.”

“Did you know you can make a picture folder with your crops in it? I’m currently playing with patterns on my field – pumpkins are bright orange, and the lavender is indigo, it’s a great combination,” he continued. “Of course, it takes a little skill to calculate, because pumpkins take eight hours to full size, while lavender needs two days. Do you want to join us?”

Hardison took one step back. “Thank you, but I’ll pass.”

“You have no idea what you’re missing. It’s a way better than fishing – as soon as you have enough time, I’ll tell you everything about it. The Greenhouse is especially interesting, with combining different-”

“Stop it,” Hardison hissed, taking one more step back. “Forget I asked anything.  As far as I’m concerned, we never talked about this, okay?  I don’t want to know…anything.”

“Your loss,” Eliot sighed, and closed his eyes, allowing him to run away, barely able to hide a smile.

Hardison would figure it out, eventually, but until then, he’d be spared Facebook lectures, and lessons about internet security. The worst part of it was that it would be a well-meaning, and worried attempt, and he was sick and tired of the nice people that surrounded him, watching over him. They were all too smart to annoy him openly, they all kept their distance, seemingly paying no attention to him – damn grifters. At the same time, he could feel a shift in their attention after every move he made, or when he wasn’t making any moves and they thought he should.

Betsy was no exception, and he knew what was behind that stupid plant growing game, especially when he got an invitation for a Café World, too – if she thought that pumpkins and cooking game could occupy him and divert him from the current situation, she was wrong.

The best way to keep them all satisfied was going along with their moves, so he grew plants to prevent some other ideas, and he made them eat unheard of things, trying to show them that cooking was the brightest point of the day, waiting, just waiting, for hours, for a day to pass. To steal a few hours during the night, to prepare himself to survive another day.

He was getting the hang of that, every day pushing his boundaries one step further, step by careful step, he was slowly returning control to his thoughts and reactions, and then _this_ happened. The last thing he needed right now was helpless fear.

He was very satisfied with feeling _the need_ to help that girl… after all, if he let her die it would be just one more death, nothing special, nothing crucial – but that feeling wasn’t enough to pull him through thinking that he maybe, in the long term, made a mistake.

He opened his eyes to look at her, and caught her just at the moment when she smiled at Sophie. She caught his movement out of the corner of her eye, and looked at him, prolonging her smile to him too. So he smiled back.

She was more than cute. And ridiculously brave. Just a little strange, with that short blond hair and weird sense of humor. And completely unaware that the man who saved her was thinking about how she might have been more useful dead than alive.

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	5. Chapter 5

***

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Florence used the last preparations for lunch to check her laptop; she sent an email to Jethro, blaming Orion for the smashed camera – a Skype conversation from the unknown apartment would ask for an explanation, and she decided not to disturb him yet. He couldn’t do anything to help her, and his worry and fear would just disturb her. She had had enough of that already.

Ford was listening to the Winslow & Knudsen recording again, standing in front of the screens as if he was trying to enter the set where it was shot. He had said he’d already listened to it several times, and it was clear that something was confusing him.

She peeked at it as well, seeing Knudsen as a part of the mafia for the first time, not just as an owner of a security company.  The change of perspective was interesting. Knudsen was on the set, she remembered every detail of that laboratory from the fourth episode, and he briefly talked with two of his men. One of them gave him car keys and he dismissed them when Michael Winslow approached. Knudsen was a young shark, sharp and quick, and Winslow, with his gray hair and slow steps looked old and tired. She noticed that Ford stopped the recording when only Knudsen was in it – he caught him at the moment he watched his men go, playing with the keys and smiling at Winslow. Her mind automatically gave him all the bad guy attributes. His eyes seemed cold. Blue, as sharp as his face was, and arctic. Winslow looked benign standing near him, and though she knew that the balance of power was in his favor here, he wasn’t the one that looked threatening.

It seemed that Nate thought the same.

She used everybody’s lack of attention to go through all the news that talked about the Boston shootings from the last week – she hadn't paid too much attention when that happened and she knew only the basics.

It was more than interesting. That sudden outburst of violence in a peaceful town was still confusing all the analysts, and she just scrolled through numerous theories, trying to find mere facts. There were few. It seemed that it was a final encounter of the many smoldering fires amongst the criminal world, and the skirmish was deadly. It didn’t ignite into fire, but into an explosion. Some analysts were connecting it to a terrorism threat a few days after, but many more of them had a theory that the government covered it all up by bringing up a nonexistent terrorism attack. Some of them made pretty good observations that the virus threats were only in the casinos which were mainly led by different gangs.

None of that, however, mentioned any consulting agency involved. She copied the files that mentioned Don Lazzara, and then looked at the five people around her. Ford had explained to her why he’d involved the police after all, and showed her the statement she ‘signed’. If nothing else, that calmed her suspicion a little – if they weren’t reluctant to involve the police, and the Bonnano he mentioned was clearly his friend, maybe their kind of work wasn’t _all_ illegal.

She mentally scratched the _body parts in the bathtub_ scenario, and went onto _TV writer involved in half-legal extortion and burglary_. Because, that thing was obviously on Ford’s mind, according to a few sentences she overheard.  The _a_ _cquiring_ of evidence clearly had many meanings.

Hardison was working on a blueprint that she recognized as C4 Headquarters only by the artificial lake in front of the driveway, but she said nothing, as if she didn’t notice, or didn’t connect the dots. She just continued to search through the articles about the shootings, trying to find any clue that she could use.

When the time for lunch finally came, she had only a mess of inconclusive data, many names, and nothing concrete. It seemed that the only way to find out what their role in all that was, was to draw it from them, somehow.

“If you want, you may eat at the table,” Parker said to Eliot who was adding some final things to the bowl while they were sitting at the table.

“ _Thank you_ , Parker,” he sighed. “It’s very merciful of you.”

“No, it is not. You only have nine minutes for eating, so hurry up.”

Florence hid a smile, just as the others did. In fact, Eliot looked as if eating was the last thing on his mind, and passing out was something to welcome.

She didn’t dare to ask what this dish was exactly; although it was the first time she ate something with so much fennel in it, it tasted excellent. Hardison was the last one who dared to touch it, but even he had no objections. The only one completely without an appetite seemed to be Eliot, who was just rearranging the food on his plate. She could bet he was counting down those nine minutes, waiting to get up and rest. He had already used all the getting up and walking that Betsy allowed for one day, not to mention preparing the lunch, and he looked beyond exhausted. Yet, except Parker, no one said a word about it.

Hardison and Sophie discussed tomorrow’s meal, darting in random ingredients and debating their use, but despite that the randomness was terrifying for even her to listen to, Eliot said nothing.

“What do you know about Don Lazzara?” she asked when Hardison got up for more wine.

“Not enough,” Nate answered. “But we hope to collect more useful information as we go along.”

A very polite evasion of the answer, she thought. “Italians were included in that big shooting too,” she continued. “Maybe that night can give you more answers, if you dig a little. It’s confirmed that the Italians attacked the Chileans and the Irish more than once.”

“Don Lazzara, as we can see, has many playgrounds.” Ford’s answer was completely calm. “We don’t know yet if the fact that his nephew is the head of C4 Security means that Don Lazzara has anything to do with your case. For now, he is just a potential complication, nothing more.”

“So, investigating his role in that night would be a waste of time?” she went on, trying to find a way to ask something more concrete. “Even if Dvorak Security was among those on the streets, attacking the other cartels?” She took more bread while speaking, watching the others – there was no change in their behavior. She half expected that they would dart glances between each other, or avoid her eyes by staring at their plates… well, maybe she spent too much time writing reactions that would be appropriate for a screen and actors. Sophie and Hardison were looking at Nate with sincere interest, just as if they wanted to hear his answer too. Parker was grinning at Eliot, showing him three fingers, probably the countdown of the minutes left, and Eliot was glaring at her. Yet, though they behaved as if she didn’t ask anything, she could feel the tension like the cloud over the table, showing her that her questions were not welcome.

“There is a possibility that Dvorak Security was on the streets with the other Italians That Night, yes,” Ford’s voice was even softer now, and that was the first warning sign. “Why would that be important?”

“That insight can give you more info about their modus operandi than anything that Hardison can find, wouldn’t it?” she smiled at Hardison. “And in case you don’t know who shot Eliot, maybe you can find some clues as well.”

Silence.

This time Nate raised his eyes to Eliot, and Florence noticed he was watching her.

“I was shot three days _before_ That Night.” Eliot repeated the slight accent on those words, just as Nate had, speaking equally as calm. But at the moment he spoke, Hardison put his glass down. “We know who did it –  the police were there in a few minutes, and the attackers were arrested on site. That case is more or less closed.”

“They weren’t Don Lazzara’s men?”

“They weren’t Don Lazzara’s men,” he smiled; a strange, sweet smile that triggered a small subliminal wailing alarm deep in her mind. _Stop it, you fool.  The bathtub option is still open_. She watched him, barely noticing that Parker shifted, exchanging a spoon for a fork, but she overrode all the signals and went on.

“My recording showed that you were brought here the morning _after_ That Night, still leaving blood behind you.”

“I left hospital earlier than it was smart,” he said with an even voice. “Precisely, earlier than Betsy thought was smart.”

“What were you doing?” Nobody at the table was moving anymore, the silence was so thick that she could cut it.

He paused a second, watching her. “Mostly bleeding,” he said finally.

“How come all of you then got involved in that trouble That Night, particularly with the Italians?” She sensed his inward flinching after that question, hidden by a completely expressionless face.

“Only two words.” Nate’s voice was tense now, and all of them looked at him at the same time. He paused one second too, then grinned and said: “Shit happens.”

Parker snorted, Sophie shot a brilliant smile, and the tension dissolved in a second.

“We are a shit magnet.” Hardison smiled too. “I mean that in the most positive way, of course. Do you know how difficult is to consult shit? ‘Cause that’s what we do – we consult. We, the associates.”

Florence giggled, admitting defeat. _For now_. She checked only Nate and Eliot - they both were hiding a smile, even Eliot; this time it was a normal, warm smile that had nothing to do with that strange feeling just a few seconds ago. Though, she couldn’t see his eyes, they were lowered to his plate, his head bowed just enough to hide them. She immediately regretted involving him in the conversation when she saw he put down the cutlery that he couldn’t hold any more – his hands were shaking badly.

Hardison was up in a second. “And speaking of shit,” he said, going to Eliot’s left side. “Here we have one who looks exactly like it. C’mon, that’s enough. You were sitting, talking, eating, we are very impressed, actually in complete awe, but that’s it.” He pulled him up on his feet while talking and Florence noticed that everybody held their breaths for a second, as if something unusual was going on. Yet, Eliot said nothing, he just kept smiling; he allowed him to get him up, swaying a little, and Hardison took him away, step after careful step.

Nate poured her more wine and borrowed Parker’s fork, while Sophie offered her one more ladle full – it was such a well played and natural distraction that she almost missed the darkness in Hardison’s eyes when he returned. It was replaced with a grin in the less than a second and she wasn’t even sure that she saw it right… but yet, she knew she had overdone it, more because of the strange feeling of unease in her stomach, than because of their reactions.

“It started with the Chileans.” Nate’s voice was quiet.

She raised her eyes to him, flinching under those calm eyes. “We put one of their lieutenants in jail,” he went on. “And they swore revenge, tried to kill us all. Eliot was the first to go down, but they failed - he managed to warn us and we fled.”

“Nate…” Sophie bit her lip. “The less she knows, the better for-”

“The more she knows, the less she’ll ask. Besides, she ought to know that she is involved with people who got into trouble with the Irish, Mexicans, Armenians, Italians and Chileans – and who might still pay for it.” His eyes never left her, and Florence tried not to hunch down into her shoulders. “It culminated That Night, yes, but we managed to skip under their radars…barely. The problem with Don Lazzara is not that we were openly involved in his trouble, because we weren’t – but it would be wise not to walk under his very nose now, so soon, and force him to start connecting dots. Retroactively. That’s why we are not happy with his nephew in your case.”

“I understand. Thank you for letting me know.” She glanced to the bed. “It would’ve been better if I had waited with my questions, right?”

“Yes, it would,” his voice went gentler. “He left the hospital with internal bleeding, to do some things that needed to be done, and he barely lived. In fact, it’s only been a few days since we were sure that he would live.  Do _not_ ask him anything, Florence.”  That was the clearest warning that she had ever heard in her life, and she just nodded. Something terrible must have happened to him, or they wouldn’t-

“Nothing happened to him.” Sophie’s voice was as soft as silk. Florence met her eyes, stunned. “We just don’t want to disturb him further – he decidedly doesn’t like attention or nosy questions about, well, anything. That’s all.”

“Besides, he’ll be out of it the rest of the day,” Hardison jumped in. “Can we continue with lunch, finally? You’re all too morose for my liking, and this is getting cold. I suggest we watch the DVDs after lunch, to relax before going out, and Florence can fill us with anecdotes from shooting. Though, we’ll have to lower the volume in case he is sleeping already – he desperately needs to rest.”

That ‘going out’ part, said so lightly, drew a worried sigh from her. She had no idea what they were going to do, and asking them now, after this, was not such a clever option.

“No,” Nate said quietly, a hint of a smile touching his lips. “No rest for him today.”

“What?” Hardison blinked, but Florence noticed Sophie’s smile of approval. “He already overdid-”

“ _We_ will rest.” Nate’s smile broadened. “I've thought of a better use for him.”

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***

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“What?!” Eliot just stared at the grinning Nate who walked to his bed at some point after lunch, _just when he thought they'd all finally shut up_. “You gotta be kidding me-”

“Nope. You’re bored,” he repeated. “You’ll watch the DVDs. Someone has to be informed.”

“I won’t. I’m not bored. And Hardison is much better at that geeky stuff. I don’t watch-” he stopped himself when he looked at the table. Hardison’s grin was so broad that his head was sliced in two halves already, and Florence… her face fell. _Fuck_. “I don’t watch _any_ modern shows, because…” _because they’re stupid, and illogical, and naive_ , the things he couldn't just say in front the author of one of those. “…because I have a phobia of, of, of quick camera movements, especially when it comes to panoramic-”

“Eliot, cut the crap.” Nate clicked the remote and a cheerful introduction played on the screen. “Move. Sofa.”

“I’m not bored,” he murmured, slowly getting up. “I’m very busy. And I can’t watch it, I don’t have my-” He just sighed when Nate pulled his glasses out of his pocket; yep, he should have expected that from the bastard who always had it covered. He didn’t bother to ask how the hell he managed that.

He snatched the blanket and the pillow from the bed, and stood motionless, but Nate’s grin was merciless. If he didn’t go to that screen, that screen would come to him, he was sure.

“Do you want me to take notes?” he asked bitterly, contemplating suddenly passing out.

“No, I want you to remember everything important.” Nate’s face had that strange expression that people trying to suppress a laugh often had, and he realized he was standing by the bed, in fucking baby blue pajamas, hugging his pillow and the blanket, and _whining_. He thought about explaining that the blanket covered his trembling hands, and the pillow held in that position was resting his right hand, but he thought better about it and just growled in utter frustration.

And he managed to _march_ to the sofa, without stumbling on the two stairs, he didn’t even notice them this time. What the fuck was important in her series, that had to be remembered? Nate’s motives weren’t usually so damn blatant. If he thought that watching some stupid show would exhaust him and force him to sleep through the night, he was wrong. Or, to occupy him and give him something to do instead of remembering various shit, he was, well, _very_ wrong.

“Why don’t you two join him and Florence?” Nate said to Sophie and Parker who were busy in the kitchen, and he barely managed to stop his teeth from gritting. It was getting better and better. Classical diversion of attention: keep the idiot busy with pretty pictures and popcorn, and he wouldn’t notice Nate and Hardison at the dining table going through the plan for the evening. _That would be executed without him_. As if he needed more reasons that would tie his stomach into painful knots.

Florence came to sit beside him, looking uncertain and not so happy.

“Nate,” he managed to produce a small, calm smile. “Even though practice is not possible, the theory is still important. Maybe now more than ever. I have to see-”

“Every episode of the first season, to see the tone, and know the characters and plots,” Nate finished his sentence. “Be nice to Florence.”

And keep her occupied and away from our plan, now he finished _his_ damn sentence. He hated himself.

“Besides, it’s too early for you to sit in a chair again. Later.”

Okay, that was going somewhere. They wouldn’t go there without him checking the security and finding all the trouble and dangerous spots first – they just needed him to keep the intruder busy for now.

He glanced at the intruder who was sitting on the far end of the sofa, and sighed. Be nice. He could do that. _He mastered fucking nice to perfection_.

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***

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“See? There! The upper right corner – that’s where the sniper is, and they didn’t notice it. It’s important, it’s the first mistake that Vin made in four episodes, and the consequences will go through the entire season ‘til finale.” Florence grabbed more popcorn from Parker’s bowl, and Eliot hoped she would just shut up, her mouth being full, but she continued. “They’ll all have to learn to trust his judgment again – trust is the main theme of the first season, because they are all just thrown together. Do you have any idea how complicated it is to make seven loners trust each other?”

“That sniper wouldn’t-” he tried to say something, but thought better and shut up. _This is so wrong_.

“Shhhh!” Sophie snapped at him, as if he was the one that kept talking all the time, and he slowly drew himself a few more inches away from three women staring at the screens in utter fascination.

“You can _feel_ his inner struggle,” Sophie whispered.

Dear God. He covered his eyes with his hand.

Turning around completely would be physically too demanding, but he sent a mental glare to the source of the almost silent snickering behind his back, at the dining table. He moved a little more and brought his fingers up to briefly pull his eyes back and make them appear oriental, and finished by holding up his hand and making a quick turning motion with his finger.  He was the only one who noticed Nate's quiet huff of laughter. _Yes, Nate, Kurosawa is definitely turning in his grave_.

To be honest, he knew why this show was so popular, even if it had nothing in common with the original movie – it was entertaining, funny, clever and fast, and he could feel a part of the slightly weird brain sitting next to him in it… she was _really_ good. It wasn’t, really wasn’t important that her stunt coordinator was obviously a retired gardener, those mistakes were understand- “What the hell was that?” he had to say that when he saw the fight.

“Ah, that’s Buck…” Florence said if that was self explanatory. “You noticed that in every fight he keeps his back turned to the camera? Well, the actor can’t fight, he blinks and squints every time someone waves a hand in his face, so we shot him this way. He’s extremely… nonaggressive in person.”

 

“I could never tell,” he solemnly said, and she shot him an inquiring look. Be nice, he reminded himself. “He compensates for that by being shirtless a lot?” Nope, that wasn’t nice either. “I mean…he’s… he is a very thought out character, his inner struggle can _definitely_ be felt.”

Surprisingly, she smiled – a broad, sincere smile. He felt less like a jerk, but he didn’t like that he noticed how her face gleamed from within, and there sparkles in her eyes.

“Occasional shirtlessness is crucial for fandom happiness,” she said. “The shows that don’t deliver, fail. I know what I’m doing.”

And she surely did, he admitted with a sigh. This wasn’t boring, and he had no problems concentrating on one episode after another, and he even found himself thinking about the subtle subplots and their possible resolution in the end. Damn gripping thing. He didn’t dare to imagine how gripping it was for the women who watched it. He expected Parker to be the one who would comment on every jump, every climb, break in or driving, but even she was glued to the screens, missing her mouth with popcorn _twice_.

Well, he wasn’t actually needed here anymore, right?  The three of them wouldn’t go anywhere for the next three hours, and if he just skipped one or two episodes, and returned for the season finale - he wanted to see how Chris would manage to pull himself out from that pit and keep them all together – no one would notice he wasn’t there with them. He would have enough time to see Hardison’s security data on the C4 building and-

Nate cleared his throat behind him, and he stopped getting up and slowly turned around.

Nate wasn’t smiling, and the knots in his stomach tightened.

Well, fuck. _This wasn’t Plan A anymore._ He could almost hear all the bits and pieces of this shit colliding in Nate’s head, and his watching the show was obviously part of it.

He exhaled his anxiety in a slow, calming breath. “Yes, Boss,” he said softly. Nate just nodded.

He sat back, avoided Sophie’s suddenly sharp eyes, and took the bowl from Parker.

“Can someone tell me,” he said with a sigh, “why it is so important that Buck and Josiah are involved with the same woman, and why do I _feel_ it could do irreparable damage to the fragile, yet very deep bond between two of them, that we just started to discover a little more of?”

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***

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Afternoon was slowly crawling into evening when Hardison interrupted their watching with info that needed the big screens to be properly explained. Or he only said so, Florence thought, noticing the resigned looks on the faces of Leverage Consulting & Associates. Her guys also had briefings and made plans together, and those scenes were perfect for showing the team dynamics - but she also had countless hours of experience in the writer’s room where long nights were spent solving difficult scenes, plot holes, and budget cuts. She also knew that this was a nice opportunity to learn more about them, especially if they started to quarrel over the plan.

After the first five seconds she knew she wouldn’t see anything, because Nate smiled at Hardison and nodded at her – the meeting would be adjusted to the presence of an intruder, carefully cleared of anything that she didn’t need to know. Yet, Nate was wrong… she was interested in _them_ , not in their modus operandi, or all the illegal things they were doing.

“Do you want me to lock myself in the bathroom and run the water, so you can speak freely?” she asked when Hardison changed the picture with which he was planning to start.

“Not in this phase,” Nate responded seriously. “Maybe later, for your protection. Besides, this is just info that we all should know, and it’s easier to explain it all at once, than separately.”

“I completed the info about Don Lazzara, just in case.” Hardison pulled up the picture while he spoke; the Italian looked like someone’s jolly, slightly weird uncle, with red cheeks and a crown of dazzling white hair, all of that wrapped into broad smile that showed two rabbit-like front teeth.

“You’re joking, right?” Eliot asked staring at his smile. “This can’t be-”

“Wait, I thought you met him that night somewhere-” Hardison rolled his eyes. “Or before. In the past.”

“Nope,” Eliot said slowly. “I’ve never met him face to face. There was no need to…” he hesitated a moment, not looking at her, but Florence knew her presence was stopping him from explaining. “Look, Boston is huge, I didn’t have time to make a proper meeting. As far as I know, Don Lazzara was involved in That Night via a middleman. The story I’ve heard goes something like this: a Hummer, property of Villacorta’s lieutenant, attacked Don Lazzara’s house. Just a little shooting – but they left Rojas’s gun at the scene while running away, and he didn’t need more to realize the Chileans attacked him. The voice of Renan Villacorta later called Don Lazzara, officially, and explained it was a mistake, and he offered Tapia’s casino as a gift of good will. The Voice also asked for a truce while the Chileans dealt with their other trouble, and maybe even cooperation. That’s the last thing I heard about it… but you don’t have to be too smart to know that Don Lazzara decided to act right then, when the Chileans confirmed to him they were vulnerable, and under other attacks. The perfect time to deal with them for good.” He paused, thinking for a second. “Of course, these can be only street rumors, and the real story might be different, who can tell now?”

It was really a good thing that she was concentrated on them the whole time, so she didn’t have to change her behavior, and no one noticed that she held her breath. She could buy this, certainly, he really said it like he was just talking about something he had heard, but much to her surprise, Sophie was the one who gave a little sign. The dark haired woman looked at Eliot and for one quick moment, her eyes were smiling with professional admiration. Her eyes were _proud_.

Now she knew a part of his doings after he left the hospital and it sounded very useful; if the Chileans were attacking them and trying to kill them, pushing another gang onto them might work. In fact, it surely worked, since they all were alive now. The only thing that confused her a little was that he obviously told them that for the first time – they didn’t know it before.

She reminded herself to write this down later – it was extremely useful as a plot twist, and she already knew episodes in which she could use it. “He really looks like a jovial old man,” she said to show them she didn’t notice anything.

“Not in these pictures, the last ones I found.” Hardison clicked and pulled up a set of images. A bunch of people in dark suits, screaming mob all over the place. “It’s a commemoration for his friend Luigi Polenghi, who disappeared a few days ago. Police found a huge blood stain, and forensics said it was lethal, so he was pronounced dead even without a body.  DNA results confirmed it. These pictures were taken yesterday.” There was no smile on the Italian’s face now, and something heavy and thick radiated from his eyes.

“When, exactly, was his friend was killed?” Ford asked.

“Two days after the Department of Defense closed his casinos. I don’t think it’s connected. It can, however, be aftermath of That Night, but we can’t know for sure.”

“Involving the Italians in That Night, in the end, wasn’t so clever.” Eliot said softly, looking the picture, but his eyes seemed to be focused on something distant. “Whoever did that, made a mistake. Their presence didn’t bring anything important, and just added to the final number of dead.”

The silence after his words was interrupted by Ford pulling up a chair and sitting, yet nobody said a word. Hardison just changed the pictures, seemingly preoccupied with the buttons on his remote.

“Only a few days ago, I would almost agree with you,” Ford said lightly. “But I connected a couple of dots after everything settled down and I had enough time to think about it. If Don Lazzara wasn’t involved in That Night, Bonnano would've had to identify four bodies in a burnt out van before dawn. We had a classic car chase,” Nate glanced at her and smiled. “It would be pretty impressive as an action sequence. The Chileans were chasing us with machine guns.”

“It was exciting – I was driving,” Sophie said with a broad smile. “But, we were much slower and I couldn’t avoid all the bursts of bullets for that long. The Italians were the ones who dealt with the Chileans. They just appeared out of nowhere, and _their_ machine guns took them off our back. We can say we are lucky that they were called in.”

“ _Machine guns,_ ” Eliot said through gritted teeth, staring at them and Florence wondered why no one didn’t jump to bring him his oxygen. “Nobody told me anything about _that_. I wonder why.”

“You almost went into hyperventilation when we mentioned that Hardison had a gun at one point,” Parker pointed out, busy with popcorn. “And Betsy said – no disturbing him. By the way, have you changed your mind about teaching me how to shoo-”

“Soooo, these images represent all of Don Lazzara’s latest transactions,” Hardison quickly jumped in. “Sophie, don’t grin at him, and you, breathe. You can fight later, now I’m talking.” Nobody paid any attention to him, Sophie blinked innocently, Nate rolled his eyes, and Eliot…

“Fucking _machine_ guns,” he repeated, crossing his arms.

“Yo, eyes up here, all of you… I’ve spent four hours preparing all this info. Do you have any idea how difficult it is to find out anything about a mob boss? What do you think, that I _googled_ him? Nope, I hacked, and hacked, and – okay, that’s it! Nate!”

“Maybe it would be best to just put all of it in one place, so we can all see it later if necessary,” Nate said carefully. “Is there anything extremely important, that we have to know now?”

“Everything I find is extremely important! His accounts, his bank transactions, all his phones records, his whereabouts for the last two weeks, I even made a map of his driving because, yes, you wouldn’t guess, I hacked his damn GPS! I have all his legal businesses. Florence, did you know he has a small production company and modeling agency, too? The television industry is obviously something that every mob boss has to have his nose in. I also collected all of his emails, public and hidden, and I have his correspondence with a few guys who wouldn’t be happy if their conversations were revealed to any law enforcement agency- is anybody listening to me?”

“I’m listening,” Parker said slowly, and Florence joined her with a quick nod.

“Thank you.” Hardison put a hand on his heart. He waited, but the other three didn’t even glance at him. Nate was watching the screens, Eliot was silently fuming, and Sophie joined Parker with the popcorn, still grinning at Eliot.

That woman behaved differently with him than any of them, Florence realized, watching her. All of them were cautious with their words and reactions – okay, maybe except Parker – but Sophie was the only one who poked at him without any fear and restraint. She was the only one that didn’t calm him down or avoid that could upset him.

Yes, having seven guys was perfect, but now she was becoming aware that something was missing in her series – she needed strong woman characters. These people, particularly Sophie, could tell an entire page of script just with one quick glance of the eye, and one smile.

“He takes these briefings very seriously,” Nate quietly explained, and he got a hiss from Hardison instead of an answer. “Okay, people, that’s it, you may continue with your DVDs. If Hardison finds something else, we’ll stop you again.”

“It’s fascinating to watch the briefing of a consulting agency,” Florence said, perfectly serious. “It reminds me of one of my scenes – it’s in the second season, you’ll see it soon. All seven of them were drunk, one half was fighting with the other, one third were certain they were making a plan for one bad guy, the second third thought it was for some other one, and the rest thought they were talking about a movie they all watched an hour before.” She reached into Parker’s bowl and took some popcorn. “I have no idea why this reminded me of that. Do you mind if I take notes the next time?”

Hardison raised a threatening finger in her direction, his eyes wide and full of warning, but she giggled at him – when he smiled, surrendering, she felt something new, the sense of acceptance. She felt comfortable here, with these people.

Damn. When did that happen?

“Fucking machine guns.” The quiet murmuring from her left, this time, didn’t bring any bathtub images, so she elbowed his legs to move him, curled up on the sofa near Parker and nodded at Hardison to continue their episode.

“And now, my favorite one – you’ll see what happens when all of them have to do things they’re not used to, and don’t know how to do them, because they are split up and scattered without any sort of communication. Yep, shirtlessness galore, get ready.”

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	6. Chapter 6

 

***

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Five hours and seven episodes later, Eliot’s head was pounding, his eyes burned, and a headache was digging its way into parts of his brain he didn’t even know existed. Parker obviously thought that the sofa was the same as the bed, and as long he wasn’t walking, he was resting, so she allowed it; yet, he was painfully aware of the difference. And he was exhausted.

_Don't think about machine guns._

He was sitting, almost laying down with his legs on the coffee small table, but he was pushed all the way to the end of the sofa, with the women piling on the rest of it. It was fascinating what watching a bunch of handsome men could do to the strong individuals; Hardison provided an endless supply of popcorn, the bowls were all around them, and they were mixing their personal spaces without noticing it. Even Parker; her feet were laid over Florence’s lap, a thing that would astound him for decades if he wasn’t so damn tired. Sophie’s presence helped with that, of course, she was a buffer zone in the beginning, but all those boundaries slowly melted down with occasional giggles and whispers.

They seemed almost… normal. _What a terrifying thought_.

His left arm was buried under a heap of white fur – Orion was lying on his back, his head resting on Sophie, and he been watching him with suspicious yellow eyes for the last hour. Every time he tried to free his hand from under the cat, he produced a sound that was a mixture of a growl and a purr, and he had no idea what to think about it. Well, in case of a sudden attack, the cat could be used as a dangerous flying weapon, if he was able to throw him at all. The damn monster seemed to be fat and well built.

He used the introduction of the next episode to pull out his phone and type a message. Only one letter, an exclamation mark – Nate needed no words to know that the levels of his patience were so low that they were reaching China by now. It was getting dark, they didn’t have so much time anymore.

“Eliot, can you come over and help us with something?” Nate called a few seconds later; _finally_. He carefully removed Orion, and pushed him so that his fur spread all over Sophie’s dark blouse – they didn’t notice him getting up at all. Fuck, he was stiff, everything hurt, and he felt like he’d been running for hours.

Hardison was resting his chin on his hands, looking at the women in fascination. “This is…very strange,” he said. “Those guys ain’t _that_ good looking!”

“It’s the plot,” he smiled at him, restraining himself from baring his teeth. “You have no idea what you’ve been missing.”

Hardison looked tired too, and that surprised him. The hacker had been there from early morning, but he did nothing except the things he usually did. He probably spent the entire night playing those stupid elf games, and came directly to the office.

“You’re half sleeping already,” he said, carefully sitting on the chair, resisting the urge to rest his elbows on the table – raising his hands to that point looked like extreme waste of strength. “You sure you’ll be in shape for this tonight?”

Hardison frowned first, but then he thought about it. The question wasn’t mocking, he needed an answer. “It won’t take that long, and yes, I’ll be okay. I drank some coffee just five minutes ago.”

Hardison divided the screen on his laptop into nine smaller pictures and turned it to him. “Nine cameras, three of them covering the surroundings, and the rest inside.  The building is, as you can see”—he pulled up a very simple blueprint, showing a three story building with a long corridor on every story, with offices at the sides—“very easy to monitor and control. Winslow’s office is that green dot on the third floor.  Every corridor has one camera that sweeps at regular intervals. The lobby has one, the back stairs has one too, and the one in the conference room is connected to his office.  The control room is near the lobby, I think they have just one guy in it.”

“Guards?”

“Two inside, two outside, changing every hour.”

“New men, or just changing places?”

“Changing places, one hour inside, one hour outside, same guys the entire night.”

“Anything unusual?”

“Not that I noticed. Guard duty in the network building is routine, it isn’t like they are watching over something valuable. Just normal supervision.” Hardison’s voice went softer watching him. “There’s no need to worry. Parker already made an entry plan, Sophie and Nate will be decoys if needed, and we can expect no trouble.”

He suppressed a sigh and forced himself to speak calmly. “I’m the one who deals with both expected, and unexpected trouble, Hardison. You, maybe, can deal with the expected stuff, you know a lot… but  sudden turns calls for a hitter, even when there are just four guards. It takes just one guard, just one bullet-” he stopped for a moment. “No, don’t tell me not to worry, okay?”

He simply hated the way his voice revealed all his stress and fear in spite of all that huge calmness, but Hardison, though he must have noticed that, just nodded. He also hated that Hardison thought that he had to act tactfully around him; grinning and mocking would be way more natural. And welcomed.

“Give me all the cameras, the last three hours, on fast forward.”

Hardison did what he’d told him, and the screen went fast, blinking, with the little speeding figures of guards that were running in circles on all nine cameras. It took almost twenty minutes, and his headache grew, but he slowed it down only three times, to check a few details. He had to catch the rhythm of their movements and go with the flow; on fast forward all the changes were more noticeable, like sudden jerks in a steady rhythm.

Hardison was occupied with something else, but Nate watched it with him; he couldn’t tell what he was seeing, nor did he have time to think about it.

After the next five minutes, he was sure that the headache, like a giant worm, had just eaten an entire third of his brain, leaving it full of corridors, passages and secret chambers with only air in them.

“Hardison,” he said. The hacker raised his eyes to him, instantly knowing something was up.

“Trouble?”

“Yep.”

“I missed something?”

“Nope. It wasn’t for you to know. You’ll have only three two minute intervals to break in, the first one is in less than two hours.”

“Why? Parker found four half opened windows that can be used without a trace of forced entry, two of them are in the blind spots of the outer cameras, she calculated all the positions of all the cameras inside – she had ten and more backup steps if the first failed. She calculated the route of the two guards that were inside at the moment, and avoiding them is in it, too.”

“Those two guards that she counted in…is there any chance that they were those two?” he pointed to the pair that was slowly pacing one corridor.

“Yes, why?”

“Because if _the other_ two are inside when you enter, you are dead.”

Hardison just sighed.

“This pair, let’s call them Green, is watching everything very thoroughly, checking everything by the book, and they are very professional, with years of experience. Forget about them, Parker can easily walk two steps behind them, and they wouldn’t notice her. They are predictable. The other pair, call them Red, before this job were on the other side very often, the one that was breaking in. These are not the two that attacked Florence, but they come from the same line of work, working as security, and dirty jobs inside. They do everything that Green does, but at their pace, with their route, they change their rhythm of checking the corridors, and they go counterclockwise.” He showed him the Red pair going around the building now. “That means they are facing every intruder, coming _into_ them – 98% of the people who are trying to find an entrance go clockwise around the building. They know that, they are using their own experience against possible intruders. They also, right now, as you can see, changed their route again, they went at 90 degrees left, closer to the wall of the building. The last time they went by that spot, they passed by it, and then suddenly returned. They are unpredictable and they know what they are doing. You can’t deal with Red, Hardison, and even simply avoiding them might prove difficult.”

“Suggestions?” Nate asked his first question since he had sat with them.

“You know I could go with you, and be close, and even _do_ something if necessary?”

“Yes, I know. Betsy said you’re able to do everything.”

“What?!”

“Once. You can do almost everything you think you have to, but once… and that would be it. So forgive me if I’m not letting you to do something now – if you’re going down again, I’ll wait for the real danger to involve you, because only extreme situations, something really deadly, would be worthy your one month recovery from it. Is that clear?”

“You shouldn’t trust every damn word Betsy says, you know that?”

“For now, you’re the Joker that we can only use once. Deal with it.”

He stared at him, not sure if arguing would do any good; Nate’s tone was matter-of-factly calm and reasonable. And he was right, too, but that fact only pissed him off more.

Hardison raised his hand. “That place they just turned into, closer to the wall of the building… that’s one of the blind spots Parker found. We can assume they know about the others, too.”

“Yes, we can,” Eliot sighed. “So, the avoidance plan… that’s why I said you’ll have only three chances to get in. After every hour, they exchange positions, going in and out the main door. Two minutes when they are all at one point. You have to enter the complex when Red is inside and Green is out. Use the very end of Green’s outside shift to get close to the building, you won’t have trouble passing them, wait until Red leaves, and enter into building when Green do it, starting their one hour shift through the building.  Leaving will be the safest if you can wait that hour inside, unnoticed, and use another exchange to go out along with Green, using them to pass through the surroundings again with less risk of being seen – but if it isn’t possible, you’ll need a decoy that’ll occupy Red outside, on the opposite side of the complex. Nate?”

“That can be arranged. Anything else?”

“Red will be trigger happy, they adjusted their holsters five times in three hours, Green didn’t touch theirs once. Red will shoot to kill – eliminating the threat is the only safe way to stay alive, they won’t bother reading you your rights. If they suddenly decide to shorten their shifts, messing up your exit plan, abandon everything, no matter what stage you are in – just run.”

He stared at the recording for a few seconds more, while dozens of possible ‘extremely bad fuckup' scenarios went through his mind. Nate and Sophie as decoys, that wasn’t worrying him so much, they had less chance to get involved, but Parker and Hardison dancing around the guards… Jesus, he _had_ to be there. Their adaptability to the sudden chance of gunfire was none to nonexistent, he was usually there to take care of that kind of danger, and every single one of their reactions he could imagine was a disaster. And he could imagine a lot of them, he knew all the things that could go wrong, and every dreadful situation that flew across his mind was beautifully wrapped up with loud shouting, screaming and gunfire from behind his back.

They were going after two professional mob killers. Without him.

_Don't think about machine guns._

These damn pajamas didn’t have pockets to thrust his hands into, to hide them – he had to change into sweatpants as soon as possible.

“How’s the series going?” Only when Nate asked that, lightly, he did realize he had been staring into nothing for who knew how long, counting the gunshots coming from the big screens.

“Slow.” His voice was a whisper. He sighed and rubbed his forehead, continuing normally. “I’ll finish the first season when you get back, and the second one during the night.”

Nate just glanced at the screens instead of answering, so, he _was_ right. One part of his demand _was_ to keep him occupied, and preferably exhausting him as much as possible, so he could sleep at night. Well, tough shit – weariness had nothing to do with sleeping.

Hardison was tapping his chin with one finger, looking at the blueprints and recordings again, and he knew he could leave the rest in his hands – the hacker would find the safest way through those obstacles. Yet, he almost smiled to himself – his trust in him had nothing to do with his fear.

“And why are you so damn quiet?” Eliot turned to Nate, who was just sitting there, relaxed, still occasionally glancing at the laptop. “Which plan are you now on, by the way?”

“You don’t want to know,” he said with a small smile. “Something is not quite right here… not in this piece tonight, no… I’m talking about in general. The plan is simple, and it will work, I’m not worried about it – after all, I told you this is not The Job, this is just acquiring evidence. There’s one word that’s constantly reeling on my mind, and I can’t explain it yet.”

“Which one?” Hardison frowned.

“Overkill.” Nate smiled and got up. “Work on it some more, we’ll wait for the second two minute entry, not the first one in two hours. They’ll be more eager during the first change of positions, the second one, after two hours have passed without trouble, will relax them a little. That gives us four hours, enough time for Parker to adjust everything that needs to be adjusted.”

Hardison followed him to the sofa with a resigned look in his eyes. “And he’s gone,” he sighed. “Overkill, huh? I guess we’ll find out about it later, then. Typical.” The hacker suppressed yet another sigh, and rubbed his eyes. It was visible he wasn’t happy with the action tonight, and that was good.

“Overconfidence is the mother of all fuckups, Hardison,” he said quietly, just in case.

“I’m still working on the simple confidence part,” the hacker smiled. “I don’t think I’ll have enough time to reach the ‘over’ part tonight. Not even close.” His smile was a little crooked, he looked exactly as young as he was – one more disturbing thought.

He could talk for an hour about warnings, useful reactions, trying to cover every possible trouble they might face, but it would be in vain, just a confusing mess that would only slow him down if anything happened. It would only scare him more. Fear could be useful, but panic could kill.

So he said nothing.

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***

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As the hours went by, Parker was the only one that was still occupied with the episodes on the screen, and Florence started to feel exactly the same kind of tension that was spreading all over the room. Those five people were the center of her attention and she concentrated only on observing them, trying to find out more about them. Every time she thought she came to a conclusion, something new happened and she had to start all over again. For the entire day, her five living groups of puzzle pieces had been arranged, and rearranged, and at the moment they started preparing to ‘go out’, she had just five piles again, scattered and shapeless.

Hardison had explained to her how to use the earbud – she was supposed to guide them through Winslow’s office if they needed details. Sophie had explained all the mess that she’d encounter when five voices started to echo in her head, and how to deal with it. Parker was silently humming the main theme of the show, carrying strange black things to and fro. Florence watched her with fascination – she seemed completely absent, but in the middle of humming she went to Hardison and his laptop twice, pointed at the screen and grinned. According to Hardison’s reaction, it was obviously something not only important, but crucial.

Nate was just sitting with a cup of coffee, and though he hadn’t said a word since they turned off the DVDs, she hesitated in asking him anything, feeling that her questions might disturb whatever he had on his mind.

Eliot didn’t return to watch her series after he talked with Hardison and Nate, he went back to the bed, and he had spent the past two hours with his eyes closed. She checked. He didn’t ask to lower the volume, and she would bet he could repeat every single word that was said in the last two episodes.

She put the earbud in her ear to get used to their voices, and everything that was said was in stereo, completely clear.

After Hardison prepared some other laptop to take with them along with a tablet, they were ready to leave, and yet nobody told her a word about what, in fact, they were going to do. Well, now wasn’t the time for that question, that was for sure. She stood by the sofa, not knowing what to do and what to say. To wave goodbye to them? To say 'break a leg'? _To call the police to stop them?_

Eliot was up, and he was going to them, so she decided to see what he would do, and act accordingly.

“And where the hell do you think you’re goin’?” He stood in front of the small group, blocking their way to the door. Okay, maybe she _shouldn’t_ follow his steps, after all.

“What?” Hardison blinked at him.

“You won’t leave ‘til you put all nine cameras on the big screens. I have to know what’s going on. I have to see it.”

“And why? So you can reveal your Superman shirt under your pajamas and fly over Boston to the rescue? No way, I’m not putting the cameras up there – you’ll just get mad and drive yourself nuts.”

“He has a point,” Nate said, leaning against the kitchen counter.

“You’re not leaving then.” Eliot crossed his arms and just stood there. Hardison took one hesitant step forward.

“You know,” Sophie’s voice trailed in. “We were all very happy when you finally managed to cross your arms, it gave a very _distinctive_ note to your constant 'nope, not gonna happen, no way, I won’t, no chance, no Ma’am'… we missed that a lot.”

“Back off, Soph. If you think you can pass by me to that door, I suggest you all do it at the same time, your chances might go up slightly. No one is leaving here until he does what I told him. I’m not negotiating.”

“Should I taze him?” Parker asked Nate, but he just shook his head. She frowned. “Not at all, or not yet?” After another no, she sighed and sat on the stair.

“Look, Eliot,” Nate sighed. “It wouldn’t be smart. You’ll be connected to the earbuds, there’s no need to-”

“Not. Negotiating.”

“You gotta be fucking kidding me!” Hardison almost barked. “What would you do, you idiot, stop us with violence?”

“In your case, that won’t be needed.”

“You know I still have one punch for you – I might take this as a good opportunity to even the score, you know that? Stop pissing me off and move out of the way!”

That threat just made Eliot’s grin more wolfish. “You’re in the women category, Hardison, which means I’ll hit you only if you hit me first, so c’mon, we can settle all this now. Your move.”

“What?!” Hardison choked. “Woman category? You cocky son of-”

“Guys, guys,” Nate sighed again. “Just do it, Hardison, this is pointless. He won’t move.”

“Told ya’ so.”

“You'll let him bully his way- no man, this is not acceptable, this isn’t the way to treat your colleagues, your friends, your-”

“Hardison,” Sophie softly smiled. “With the recordings on the screens, he will feel even more miserable than without them.”

Hardison opened his mouth to protest, but thought better of it and closed it. He pondered a few seconds, while they were all still standing there, then smiled. “You’re right. Who am I to argue with self destruction, right?” He returned to the table and got busy with the laptop, and all rest of them just stood there, waiting in front of Eliot. He didn’t move an inch.

Parker was looking Eliot over from head to toe, her head slightly tilted. “You know I could get past you if I wanted. You’re not that fast.”

“Have you ever heard of ‘temporary insanity’, Parker?”  His glare was cold and steady, no traces of joking present.

“Temporary?” Hardison hissed from the table. “In your case that would be an improvement.”

“I’m _really_ glad you’re aware of that fact. Your self-preservation instincts just moved one rung up from Daisy Level.”

“Is there a _name_ for what’s wrong with you?” Hardison emphasized his words with a violent strike at the keyboard, and big screens tilted with black and white security footage. He took the remote and tried it, moving back to them. “Okay, here you go,” his voice went back to normal in a second. “Press these numbers if you want one particular recording to be on two, three, or all six screens. This button to go back. This pulls up the other three cameras. Do _not_ touch anything else!”

“What if-”

“No what ifs, don’t touch anything.” This time Hardison crossed his arms while Eliot was trying the buttons, putting all the disapproval in the world into one nasty stare. “And if you get…nervous… because you’re here, and we are there, that’s your fault, you asked for it. Deal with it.”

“A new toy.” This time, Eliot’s smile was almost boyish. “What does this red butt-”

“Parker, where’s that taz-” Hardison’s hiss was interrupted when Nate pushed him ahead of himself.

“Enough. Go. Move. You,” Nate turned to Eliot. “Behave yourself. Florence, if he does something and tells you not to tell us, call us immediately.”

“Yes, sure,” she sighed, not sure what she was supposed to think about the man who seemingly completely forgot about them, pressing the buttons and changing the channels with an impish smile. Maybe Hardison was right, and there _was_ a name for what was wrong with him, she thought, going after them to lock the door, something he obviously forgot.

“And what now?” she asked, not knowing what to do or where to sit. “Audio is on the laptop, right, the comms we have…”

“Don’t touch that either!” Hardison’s voice in her ear almost scared her.

“Pull it out, it’ll only confuse you,” Eliot said, going to the table to pick up the laptop; he brought it to the sofa and sat. Florence did what he said, noticing that the smiles and good mood were erased from his face. He looked tired and worried.

“I want to hear what’s going on,” she said, sitting as well.

Instead of answering, he pressed something on the laptop, and their voices came through the speakers – he lowered the volume to almost silent.  A quick exchange between Hardison and Sophie could barely be heard. They could understand the words if necessary, and every change in their tone would be noticed, but they were just a background, not directly in their heads.

She didn’t like the way he bowed his head and rubbed his forehead – it looked desperate. This entire show before the door was just an act, she realized, noticing his weakness and worry – he gave them something they expected, but it spent his strength. Playing with the toy was just a decoy for Hardison, to divert his attention. From what? That was the question she needed to find an answer to, but she had no idea how. He closed his eyes and rested against the back of the sofa.

He was strange, and he scared her a little, but when he smiled everything looked okay.

“You mentioned a self preservation level ‘daisy’ when you talked to Hardison,” she said suddenly. “Was that, by any chance, connected to…this?” she pointed to his pajamas, with elephants holding daises. He flinched visibly, grimacing, but not looking at it.

“Possibly. I had no other choice. Long story.”

“We have time. They have to drive half an hour.”

He sighed and pressed something on the laptop, and his green line went red. “I bought that monstrosity when I was at the hospital to use it as a decoy for the cop that was guarding my door. It worked. But, someone, later, remembered that, and thought I bought it because I liked it. So, that someone spent a night rummaging through Mass Gen, trying to locate the personal belongings of a runaway patient, and showed up at dawn, dusty, tired, and very pleased with her prey.” A pained expression flew over his face. “There wasn’t any way to say anything, except, 'Thank you, I really missed that – hell, I was almost desperate thinking I’d lost it'.”

She chuckled silently, not sure how he would react, but he smiled – finally.

“I guess that helped us last night – those two were stunned with my choice of nightgown.”

“You don’t mind if I use it in my next episodes? If…” she frowned, remembering the cancellation. “You people almost made me believe that the cancellation is just a temporary nuisance. You…”

“What?” He watched her, still smiling.

“You’re sure you can win this?”

“Win? It’s not the correct term. Winning is…” his smile faded a little, as if he remembered something he didn’t like. “If you concentrate on winning, you’re screwed. We prefer…. refusing to lose. It’s like refusing to die – that’s the only way to stay alive. That’s enough. If something doesn’t work, we continue with something else, refusing to lose, until the game ends. In our favor. It takes time, often, but it works.”

She watched him, realizing how much experience he must have had with ‘refusing to die’. Damn, even when she used ‘Hollywood healing’ in her episodes, she never made any of her guys to actually do something three days after they’d almost died. “Have you ever lost?” she asked quietly.

“No.” He smiled again, but his eyes darted to the big screens for one second, to the nine cameras and the guards that were waiting for his team to come. She realized just then that he'd had the earbud in the entire time while he was talking to her, listening to them, his attention split without her noticing it.

He was their security, she finally realized. The rest of them had other fields, other roles, and they were going in without backup, without him. She had written a few plot twists of that kind, and she was skilled at building the slow, but inevitable anticipation of impending doom – but nothing she could imagine could match this man’s smile, not any actor she knew could show so much by _hiding_ emotions.

Well, this rabbit hole worked backwards, she thought, lowering her eyes to the laptop with the audio readings – she had been pushed into the fucking real world, torn from her nice, little fantasy world.

Those guards had real bullets, and she could see that in his eyes.

 

 


	7. Chapter 7

 

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***

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The rest of the team was still driving when Eliot got up and went to prepare coffee. Florence wasn’t sure if that was something that she should report to Nate – was she here to spy for him? – and more importantly, was it something that Betsy would approve of.  The nurse didn’t seem to be happy with him staying awake all night. She took a paper from the bunch at the table, wrote down ‘coffee so late at night?’ and put it in her pocket.

She was entertained by Sophie’s and Nate’s banter about something that happened four months ago; Nate said the wrong date and that was enough to start an avalanche. Those two had _many_ strange issues. The other two were quiet, probably worried, or concentrating. Florence decided to stay silent and just observe and listen until she was needed, and that seemed to be Eliot’s choice as well. He hadn’t said a word to them since they departed.

After their talk about his pajamas, he didn’t say a word to her, either. It would have been comfortable silence, if he didn’t look so calm, showing nothing. When he returned with the coffee and just continued to watch the cameras, following the guards' trajectories, she noticed that he sat carefully, tense and as if he was ready to start running at the next moment. His every move was controlled and deliberately slow; he was suppressing himself, not letting his anxiety show, so she wouldn’t see it and get upset.

Florence looked at the laptop with their comm lines on the screen. “What do I need to press so they can’t hear what I say, and I can still hear them?”

He showed her, and she quickly turned her green line into a red one. “Okay,” she whispered so his comm couldn’t catch her words. “If you’re trying to act calm and relaxed so I wouldn’t freak out, you’re doing a lousy job. I’m scared and nervous. You’re not calming me down with that Buster Keaton empty face, so just stop, okay?”

He slowly turned to her, cutting off his line as well. And then he _smiled_. His tired face transformed in a second and Florence stopped an inward ‘oh’, when that smile touched his eyes. Fuck, this was by far the most beautiful smile she had ever seen, and she just blinked.

But the smile vanished faster than her blink, and his face went into a closed, cold mask once again. “ _That_ I would do if I wanted to calm you down,” he stated flatly. “Which I wasn’t doing. I’m concentrated on them, not on you, and I have no time to pay any attention to your fear.”

“You can repeat that at will, even when you’re all grumpy and in a bad mood?” she grinned. “Do it again.”

His eyes narrowed slightly.  Uh–oh.  Not the right time for joking. “Okay, I’ll shut up,” she sighed. Instead of an answer, he turned away from her and concentrated on the screens again, unmuting both of their comms, so she curled on the sofa and continued to watch the corridors and the park around the C4 building.

Well, he _did_ calm her fear, she thought glancing at his profile – that melting smile was still vivid in her mind. She worked with seven world renowned actors, all of them in the top ten on every list; their smiles were really something. Yet, somehow, all she ever wanted after a long day on set was to come home to Jethro – she was tired of gorgeous men and their smiles, no matter how dazzling they were.

She shouldn’t let one grifter, a conman, who probably practiced that smile to lure his victims into, blah, _something_ , disturb her. She took a few pieces of paper and wrote a few short notes about her next bad guy, dangerous, dark and deadly, able to play any role and move mountains with his smile. Killing him off would be a challenge. She glanced at him again, thinking, and then wrote ‘a bazooka’ near the description. Somehow it seemed that bullets were insufficient in this particular case.

She put the papers in her pocket, took the coffee, and prepared to get scared again – the voices from the earbud went quiet. They had arrived on the scene.

.

. 

***

.

 

They parked Lucille on the street near the park that surrounded the C4 building, and Nate checked the time.

“Five minutes ‘til they switch positions. Hardison?”

The hacker was monitoring all the footage, already dressed in black, as was Parker who was checking her gear one last time before they went out. “All set, we’re ready.”

“Florence, are you with us?”

There was two seconds of silence. “Oh, that was for me? Yes, I’m here, listening. I can’t see your van on the cameras. Will you be visible on the recordings when you get in?”

“The point is to avoid that,” Hardison said, giving the sign to Parker. They both got out of Lucille, closing the door behind them.

Sophie stayed in the driver’s seat and Nate moved to the screens in the back, opening the side door. That was the only way to monitor their progress through the dark park with bushes. Two big street lamps were on the opposite ends of it, and ground lights lit up the lake and the sculpture near it. He couldn’t follow them for long, because the two dark silhouettes merged with the darkness and disappeared.

The two Green guards were slowly approaching the main door, coming through the park from the opposite direction of Parker and Hardison, but Nate followed them on the live feed, watching for any sudden change that could endanger the two. There wasn’t any, for now. At the same time, the two Red guards were coming to the main door from the inside, pacing the ground floor corridor. Nate knew Eliot was monitoring them as well, and that he would report any change, maybe even before they made it, but he watched it as well. There wasn’t time for sloppiness now, they couldn’t take the risk of being caught without a hitter who could deal with everything dangerous and clear the retreat path for them.

Lucille was parked so they could see the camera blind spot Parker had found. The ground floor had large windows that couldn’t be opened, but they were lucky.  The camera wasn’t covering a small row of three high positioned windows that were obviously only there for ventilation purposes. The offices wouldn’t have it, and according to the position near the end of the long building, and the size of the room Hardison measured on the blueprints, it had to be some sort of storage or archive. That was the easiest point for the entry.

“Hardison, why don’t you just hack that thing from the outside?” Eliot’s voice sounded annoyed when he spoke, for the first time after a long pause.

“Yeah, and write a script that would send Winslow’s hard drive flying through the window into Lucille? You have no clue, right, you think it’s- yes, I would search for wireless and Bluetooth access points, usually, but their internal servers are shut down now in the middle of the night, so I have to do it manually – and that means getting into the junction room that has IO stations, and that particular junction room is stationed at the end of the corridor. I will- you stopped listening, right? I _feel_ your mind running through the green fields in a galaxy far far aw-”

“What? Was any of that actually English?”

“Okay, people, Red and Green just met at the main door, they are exchanging info,” Nate said, checking the time. “Green is going inside. Ready?”

“We are under the window now.” Parker's voice was, to his relief, all business. “Hardison, lift me up.” A soft ‘cling’ sound was heard after a few seconds. “Okay, I’m in. Hardison, climb up after me, and don’t whine-” He didn’t whine, he squeaked. “Climbing three meters on a rope isn't very demanding, you know?”

Another squeak. Nate patiently waited.

“I’m in,” Hardison's tortured voice finally whispered, after thirty seconds. He sounded like he had spent two hours in the gym. “And I was right, this is the storage room. The lock shouldn’t…. bleh.”

“What?”

“I hate when they have enough money, so they could put electronic locks even on the storage rooms… or maybe they had discount prices. It’ll take a few minutes to break the code.”

“Break the code?” Florence whispered. “What does he mean-”

“I could explain normally, but I’ll use Eliot’s people’s language: it’s a little thingy that geeks connect to a lock, and then that thingy does strange things with numbers, until it _guesses_ the right combination. By magic.”

“Ah, some sort of skimmer, right?”

“Your apprenticeship is confirmed. You may proceed.”

Nate cleared his throat. “Hardison, how much time?”

“Four minutes, and then we’ll be able to enter the corridor. The possible problem is, that we’ll have to repeat those four minutes on every lock on our way, and that will slow us down a bit. Nothing to worry about for now.”

“Eliot, sweetie,” Sophie’s voice trailed in, gentle and soft. “Will you please stop growling? You’ve been keeping extremely low frequency for the last few minutes, and my stomach is starting to vibrate.”

“I’m not-”

“Oh, _that_ ’s what that sound…” said Florence. “I thought you’d left the coffee machine to work without water.”

“I know it’s maddening to sit there helplessly, listening to all the dangers we’re going into,” Sophie continued sweetly. “And being unable to help if needed. How does it feel? Really? Clicking on a remote, while we risk our lives?”

The first response was a quiet huff of laughter. “Sophie, you do remember the Reunion Job, right?”

“Why? Because I made you make me tea? I was just yanking your chain a little. I’m not neuro progr-”

“No, darlin’. Because of the cockroaches.”

She gasped. “You wouldn’t!”

“Try me. I’m bored, remember? Dozens of cockroaches, swarming-”

“If anyone is still wondering about the two of us that are inside of a dangerous building,” Hardison’s dry voice interrupted them. “We have two more minutes before the doors open.”

“We’re here, just continue,” Nate said. He heard, however, the sound of a door _closing_. “What was that sound-”

Florence’s barely audible whisper stopped his words. “Sophie!!” she breathed, alarm sounding clearly in her voice. “Sophie, he took off his pajamas!! What am I supposed to do now?!”

Even Sophie stood speechless for one long second, long enough for Florence to gasp, “No, I didn’t mean-damn, that sounded wrong. He-”

“He _changed,_ ” Eliot’s resigned voice trailed in. “And _he_ is in the bathroom. A closed door, Florence, is not a barrier for the earbuds. Remember that, okay?”

Nate sighed. “You changed into…?”

“Something more comfortable,” Eliot stated with an even voice. “For no reason at all.”

“ _Sweatpants_ ,” a breath came through earbuds.

“Thank you, Florence. Right, that’s _definitely_ more comfortable than pajamas. With or without reason.” Nate rubbed his forehead. “Okay, enough, we’ll discuss it later. Now-”

“There’s nothing to discuss,” Eliot’s voice went low. “Just concentrate on-”

“Hello? Door? Lock? Anyone?” Hardison hissed. “I’m ready. I can open the door now, but I’ll wait two more minutes.  Green is slowly going to the second story corridor, as you can see. Just in case, I’ll give them a little more time, so the ground floor is sure to be clear.”

Nate quickly checked all the cameras, and nodded. “Go when you're ready.”

.

.

***

.

 

Florence rested her elbows on her knees, resting her chin on her hands; when Eliot came from the bathroom, she looked completely absorbed by the recordings on the screens. Yet, she wasn’t sure if she was still blushing, embarrassed to the bone.

“You’re doing fine. You’ll get used to it soon.” She glanced at him when he said that; he wasn’t smiling, but he wasn’t frowning either, clearly deciding not to pay attention to a stupid misunderstanding. They had more important things to do; Hardison’s two minutes were slowly crawling by.

“What now?” she asked, nodding to the screens.

“They’ll avoid the camera in the ground floor corridor to reach the other end - Hardison will have to find that office to get to their surveillance system and put a loop in their feed so the guy in the control room will see a recording. That way they don’t have to lose time counting the camera’s movements for every step they take.”

She went silent, trying to remember the building she had been in hundreds of times, but never paid any attention to those details. “If that camera moves, how-”

“Parker calculated the trajectory. Following it in the first half, waiting, moving a few steps to the right and back, waiting until it goes just over their heads, then following it again to the end… it’s not so hard if you know what you’re doin’.”

This _was_ calming her down, she thought watching him carefully taking the cup of coffee.

“Sounds easy.”

“Their surveillance system is not good – too many blind spots and moving cameras are amateurish, though it looks ominous. Low coverage. For Parker, it’s a walk in the park.”

“What would Sophie do?”

“Convince them they don’t need the cameras turned on.”

“And you?”

“Make sure there’s nobody watching it, and walking around through the corridors.”

Oh. That sounded… bad. She met his steady eyes, not daring to ask how he would do that, and knowing he told her that on purpose. She remembered the two bodies in the corridor. With knives. _Don’t take these people too lightly_.

“By the way, that’s a nice shirt,” she said innocently. “You’re not worried you’ll spill your coffee on it?”

“You’re drinking _coffee_?!” Sophie exclaimed.

“A _shirt_?” Nate said at the same moment. “Seriously?”

Eliot darted her a nasty look, but she just blinked. “Well, you’re learning fast,” he grumbled, hiding a smile.

The soft click of opening doors stopped her words before she could say anything and she went silent, just listening. They both held their breaths, she noticed. But when Hardison spoke there wasn’t any tension in his voice.

“Okay, we are at the door, looking out. At this end the corridor has one small curve, and that’s good, we’ll wait at the corner for the camera to start sweeping away from us, and just follow behind it-” As he spoke, Florence pictured that place in her mind, remembering almost everything. She knew what door they were at, and how many meters they had to go before they passed - _oh shit_.

“Stop! Don’t go into that corridor!” Florence said quickly, remembering one detail they couldn’t know and couldn’t see. “You can’t pass it – a security room is in the middle of it, and they have a glass door. They are sitting towards the door; you can’t pass by it unnoticed. You’ll have to find some other-”

“No time for that.” Parker’s voice sounded calm. “Nate?”

“Stand down.” Nate said just that and they all went quiet. Florence glanced at Eliot – his face was so expressionless it could be a mask. He put the three outer cameras on all of the screens, checking the position of the Red guards… if Hardison and Parker had to go back to try another way in, they would get too close to those two outside.

She didn’t dare say anything, but she wouldn’t have had time either; Nate spoke after only six seconds.

“Hardison,” Nate said calmly. “Get into the employee records, give me the name of the last guy who came to work for them, and when it was exactly. And the name of the one who is now in the room. Florence, the phone number of their central.”

Florence knew the number by heart, but Hardison was only two seconds slower. “The last guy on their employee list is James Hicks, 28, born in Austin - he has worked three weeks. The one in the room is Steve Canant.”

Nate went on. “Florence, where does Steve have to go, or look, to have his back turned to the door? Parker, when exactly is next chance to pass by camera?”

“In twenty seconds. Nineteen… eighteen… seventeen…”

“Okay, get ready.”

Florence froze, trying to picture the room she had only at glanced through the door when passing by… “Under the window was a shelf with drawers, and a big desk full of various things. That’s the only thing I can recall-”

A new, unknown voice cut off her words, and she gasped, looking at Eliot – he gave her the sign to stay quiet.

“Steve!” the shaking, old woman’s voice with a heavy southern accent was coming out of nowhere. “James forgot his pills! He forgot his pills and I can’t find them!”

“What? Ma’am, this is the C4 Network, how can I help-”

“Hardison, Parker, on my mark…” Nate said.

“It’s an emergency, Steve, James' pills are there – go to the table, he said he left them there when he left for home!” The voice was so desperate, so shaken, that Florence held her breath – the sound of quickly pushed chair was expected. “Where exactly?” Steve’s voice was now disturbed too, followed by the sound of things having been thrown and removed. Something fell and cracked on the floor.

“Go,” Nate finished.

“Okay, slowly going after the camera beam… we passed the door, Steve is beside table…” The pauses between Hardison’s words were no more than ten seconds long, but they felt like an eternity. “… going further… yep, we’re there, other end of corridor.” Hardison’s voice was mixed with sounds from the security room. “Let him go now, Sophie.”

“Oh! Here they are!” the old voice burst into relief. “I found them, Steve. I found them! Thank you, son, and thank God. I’m so sorry!”

“It’s okay, Ma’am, no problem. I hope-”

His voice disappeared, replaced with the sound of a dead line, and Sophie’s voice changed. “This might work twice, but don’t count on it.”

“There’ll be no need for it, they have a different exit,” said Nate. “Okay, Hardison, next step.”

 


	8. Chapter 8

.

. 

***

.

 

Florence took a deep breath when Nate’s calm, still so calm voice ended the crisis – her heart was pounding 100 miles per hour. The man sitting next to her seemed to be used to this sort of tension. He wasn’t worried about his team’s responses, it dawned on her - he knew they would do fine with everything that came, but he obviously expected nasty twists from the other side.

She took the coffee, not so happy; she wrote situations like this one, but now that she was in the middle of one, she felt only confusion. Her mind was too slow to process when the situation needed quick decisions, and she knew she would fail miserably if caught in something like this alone. She remembered to write this down too, in case she needed all those details.

“Four minutes, the geeky thingy is working its lock magic,” Hardison reported. They were obviously in front the junction room. Florence followed the camera that was slowly approaching them, but when it ran over the door, there was nobody in sight. Parker took care of counting their position. The two Green guards were still on the second floor.

“We’re in,” Hardison said after a long silence. “In five minutes, tops, we’ll have their surveillance.” Something in his voice disturbed her, a lazy, but very professional tone, and Florence suddenly became aware that she was an _accomplice_ in a burglary, if not something even worse. Something cold and heavy settled in her belly. She would be ruined for good if this went public. She would never work with _any_ network. _They were criminals_. She was helping them break the law, for Christ’s sake, what was she thinking-

“Can we… can we… stop this?” she whispered, frightened.

“You’re safe, Florence. Our clients are protected, never involved in anything we do, whether it goes well, or wrong,” Nate said.

“This is wrong,” she said.

“No, this is just slightly illegal. For now, we are just trespassing, nothing more.”

Hardison jumped in. “I’m putting the loop in their live feed – you’ll see the real recording, Steve will see the last hour.”

“The last one?” Eliot quickly asked. “Last hour Red was inside and Green-”

“Calm down, I meant to say the last hour when they were in _these_ positions. Steve will see Red outside, and Green inside.”

Florence gasped when both of them went out into the corridor again, and she clearly saw them on camera – it took a few seconds before her mind processed that Steve was watching the empty hall.

“Florence, we’ll talk about this when we get home, okay?” Nate continued. “For now, we have to continue – but there’s nothing you should worry about.”

Yeah. But Steve would lose his job. Not all of Dvorak Security were mob killers. She had no right to destroy one person’s future while trying to save someone else’s.

“Now is the time for you to decide if you should trust us or not.” Eliot was watching her fidgeting.

He saved her life. He didn’t have to. Everybody else would have called the police and locked their doors. But if he was there, in the C4 building with Parker and Hardison, he would make sure that nobody was watching that recording, or walking through the corridors… She just stared at him, having no idea what, exactly, she unleashed on C4.

She could see out of the corner of her eye that Parker and Hardison were quickly climbing up the back stairs to the third floor, leaving Green beneath them, and she knew Eliot could see it too. She was also certain that he monitored all the outer cameras while his eyes never left her.

If she said she couldn’t trust them, would she become a danger to them? She already knew too much. And she knew, she just knew, that this man, if faced with choosing between her, and his team, wouldn’t hesitate for a second. He wasn’t glad that Nate offered to help her.

“Well, I’m still here, that means I trust you,” she said lightly, and something in his eyes went still. And very, very calm. “What?” she forced her voice to stay stable, but barely. _Don’t lie to a conman, you fool._

“Eliot, stop scaring her.” Sophie’s voice was lit with a smile, and that eased her fear a little. “She’s in the same position as Maggie was with the Second David, she needs some time to adjust, okay?”

“Okay,” he said softly, and for some reason, that sounded much worse than if he was pissed or angry.

“Besides, remember…it’s Nate’s plan. His plans are cryptic at the best of times, even for us, and we didn’t really tell her anything…concrete. Florence, we will not blow C4 up, okay dear?”

“Okay.” She managed to hit the same softness as Eliot’s voice had, though she doubted that it had the same impact on him. If the hidden smirk wasn’t just an attempt to hide that she scared him. _Right_.

Hardison and Parker were now in front of Winslow’s office; she could see Hardison checking all the cameras on his tablet, while Parker held the geeky thingy up to the lock, and nobody said anything until the lock gave way with a quiet sound and the door opened, revealing the dark entrance. They were in – and she still had no idea what they were going to do.

They disappeared in the dark, closing the door behind them, leaving the empty corridor and no traces of their passing.

.

. 

***

.

 

“Twenty six minutes passed since entering the building, Hardison,” Nate said after checking the time. “Any problems with Winslow’s computers?”

“Parker found his safe and she’s working on it – she’ll leave it intact, he won’t know it was opened,” Hardison replied. Quick typing was the only thing that could be heard in the silence before he spoke again. “I had to go very carefully, the long way around, to avoid every possibility that someone finds out his comp was hacked – I haven’t even started on the other one yet.”

“Okay, keep track of the time.”

Nate opened Lucille’s door again, watching the building. They were parked looking at the back of it, and Winslow’s office was at the outermost end, on the right. He couldn’t see the windows from here.

Their exit point was an office on the same floor, two doors down the hall; its window was exactly above the other blind spot Parker found. When the guards were on the other side, they could climb down completely unnoticed. Even if the cameras were showing the real recording, Steve wouldn’t be able to see them disappearing into the park and darkness. But… Nate knew very well that when things were going as planned, the chance of a screw up rose significantly the closer they got to the end. In every other situation he wouldn’t be so tense, but now, without a hitter, they had to be extra careful. Which usually meant that his backup plans had to have their own backup plans.

“Listen up, people,” Nate said slowly. “We’ll need at least one minute to get to the other side and pick you up if needed, if we’re not busy with the Red guards as decoys. In that case, we’ll need more time, and you’ll be left with the Green guards longer than it’s wise. And a getaway car for you two might be needed as in now. Sophie….”

“Sitting on the sofa, or sitting in a car, doesn’t make a huge difference, Nate. I still can-”

“It does,” Nate cut off Eliot’s words. “Stop it. You’re not leaving that apartment. Sophie, go steal a car. Leave it at the front side of the building, with the keys in it, and come back around the park.”

“What?” She looked at him, perplexed. “I don’t steal _cars_. I’ve never - I don’t know how-”

“Okay, let me rephrase that,” he smiled. “Sophie Devereaux, go out of the van, and return with a car. Any which way you like.”

He endured her long, narrowed stare, but then she sighed and nodded. “I’ll see what I can do,” she murmured, closed her jacket and got out.

“Nate,” Eliot’s voice sounded strangely hesitant.

“No. You overdid today hours ago. Leaving the apartment is something Betsy isn’t even mentioning yet, do you understand that? You probably wouldn’t be able to climb down the fucking stairs to the car.”

The quiet clearing of a throat was clearly a sign from Florence, but he didn’t need her warning to know what amount of rage was boiling inside Eliot right now. Yet, someone had to point that all out, and remind him of his condition, no matter how maddening it was. Betsy had warned them about this, that they’d have a huge problem when it finally hit him, when he realized he’d need weeks of recovery to even begin to think about doing something.

Fucking ticking time bomb; the counter was speeding up, the numbers were going faster, Nate knew that – the explosion might be very deadly. But right now wasn’t the right time to think about that particular problem, so he dismissed that matter completely from his mind, returning to the black and white images that tilted on his screens.

“Hardison, status?”

“Parker is done with the safe, and she’s scanning the documents, I’m still working on his comp. Parker?”

“Five minutes tops. I’ll scan everything, and later we can see what’s important and what isn’t.”

Sophie’s soft giggle ran over her words. “Well, hello, gorgeous…will you hold that door for me?”

“Sure, Miss, here you g-hey, oh, I’m sorry.” One more giggle was followed with some rustle, as if things were scattered on the floor.

“No, no, it’s my fault, let me help you… I’m a little clumsy after a few drinks, and it’s two past midnight already... time really flies.”

“Tell me about it. You live here, or…?” The male voice left the sentence unfinished, and Nate could picture his eyes going all over Sophie. Who, of course, already had his car keys. The quiet ping of elevator doors opening told him they were inside the lobby of one of the surrounding buildings.

“Just moved in. Will you please press number – oh damn, I’ve left my purse in the car. You go on, see you.” The doors closed with a ping, taking her lucky neighbor to his apartment.

“Black Hyundai, ETA two minutes,” Sophie said in her normal voice. “I’ll leave it as near to the front side of the park as I can, but it’ll depend on a free parking spot- Oh, this is so wonderful… it’s already parked there, forget what I told you. Keys will be in it.”

“Sophie, Red is near that spot now, don’t let them see you by the car,” Eliot quickly said. “Make a bigger circle when returning to Lucille, just in case.”

“Already on it.”

Nate let one long breath out, counting the minutes. Less than twenty minutes before the guards changed their shifts, and Red entered the building.

“Hardison, hurry up.”

“Copying has its own speed, Nate, I can’t speed it up now. Ten minutes, and we’re clear.”

“Okay, report any change.”

.

. 

***

.

 

Just one minute after Sophie entered the van, it happened that Nate was the one who had a change to report - a change that stopped Eliot in the middle of reaching for the cup. Florence looked at his frozen posture; it seemed he would make holes in the screens, he was staring at them so intensely.

“Hardison, Steve is leaving his room,” Nate reported. “Eliot, has he done that before?”

“Not in those three hours I was watching. He might-”

“Shit, this is not good.”

All of them could see why Nate cursed. Steve was clearly only going to the coffee machine down the hall, but the Green guards were coming down the stairs, and they entered the corridor at the same moment he pressed the button on the machine.

“No reason to panic, for now – even if they stay to talk for a minute, they have nothing suspicious to report, unless-”

Florence wouldn’t think something was terribly wrong, if Eliot hasn’t stopped breathing when Nate broke off. She quickly glanced at him; that calm mask he was sustaining from the beginning now looked like his face was set in stone.

Nate’s voice was strange, bleak and serious. “Hardison, finish that now. Parker, clear all traces. Get ready to leave in twenty seconds. Now!”

Florence quickly checked the three guards; Steve was startled when he saw Green, he stood frozen for a second, then turned to his room with clear disbelief on his face.

“What’s going on?” Florence whispered to Eliot.

“Steve is surprised to see Green – that means he saw them somewhere else just before he left, probably on the third floor. And they couldn’t materialize down there so quickly.” Eliot slowly got up. He didn’t take his eyes from the small group – Steve was quickly explaining something to the Green guards, and together they went into his room to check what was going on. “There wasn’t a way Hardison could synchronize their real movement with the recorded and planted one.”

“Hardison…” Nate went on, his voice slightly covered by the sound of an engine being started.

“I’m watching them, I think I’ll manage to – yep, it’s okay… I removed the loop, and now they’ll see the real situation. If our luck holds, they’ll say Steve just imagined them on the third floor ten seconds ago.”

Nobody said a word, watching the camera; after three seconds, one of the Green guards went into the hall and waved at the camera, clearly showing Steve that everything worked like it was supposed to.

But the damage was done. Eliot quietly cursed when he saw Red by the lake, talking into their radios. “Nate, Steve warned Red, they are coming in to check everything, just in case. They’ll start sweeping the building, office by office, in less than a minute. You two, get out!”

“Well…” Hardison’s sigh stopped Eliot’s pacing, almost making him stagger for a second. “Steve just recalibrated all the locks. That’s four minutes again to open this door, then, Parker, camera?” Nobody breathed while Parker calculated the trajectory and time needed to pass the corridor that was now being watched again.

“Forty seconds, with fifteen seconds for waiting, all together one minute and twenty seconds with a slow pace.”

“Plus another four minutes for the door of the office with an exit window,” Hardison added.

“Ten fucking minutes! Are you kidding me?” Eliot growled and turned around like a caged animal. Florence sank deeper in the sofa. “All of them will be on the third floor before you get out of that damn office!”

He turned around again, glancing around the room, as if their way out could be found there… and the only thing he could do was lean against the back of the sofa with both hands. There wasn’t anywhere deeper to sink, so Florence sighed and moved away from his line of sight.

Red entered the building; all the guards went upstairs together.

“Parker, Hardison, forget about the second office, you’ll get caught in the hall.” Nate’s voice was calm again. “Parker, is there any way to reach the blind spot from Winslow’s office?”

“There is a small, but _very_ small ledge under all the windows, and I can go, step by step until I’m above the blind spot… it’s around twenty-five meters. But the ledge is too narrow, Hardison can’t do it.”

Florence squinted when the guards reached the third floor – if they had just decided to start from the ground one, and go up, but no, they _had_ to check the most important offices first. It was logical, even she had to admit that.

“Hardison.” Eliot’s voice was so controlled that it sounded almost like a whisper. “If they jump you, let Parker be in front.” Florence looked up at him in disbelief; Hardison’s gasp showed her he felt the same. “Don’t be stupid!” Eliot continued. “If they face black man clad in black, they’ll shoot immediately. If they see a smiling pretty blonde, they’ll stop and hesitate, even Red. That will give you a few more seconds.”

“No need for that,” Nate said before Hardison could articulate any word. “Parker, forget about ‘leaving no traces’, it’s too late for that. Plan B – short and clean. Throw him out, and don’t think about the cameras.”

“What?!!” Hardison gasped again, but he was cut off by noises that sounded like heavy furniture being moved.  The guards were still at the beginning of the corridor, opening offices and checking them, but that noise drew them all in a second. Steve opened the door and they all stormed into the office; Florence was pretty sure that the sofa would have permanent marks in the two spots were Eliot was clutching it.

Movement on one of the outer cameras drew her attention; she watched Parker elegantly sliding down the rope, followed by a knotted black mess that looked like a giant garbage bag with many flailing tentacles. Hardison landed with a painful thud.

“Get up!” Parker’s cheerful voice run over his pained keening. “Uh-oh,” her voice changed when she looked up, yanking him on his feet. “Run!”

Many gunshots covered every other sound and Florence forget to breathe, not knowing what was happening; the two of them went out of the reach of the camera after only five steps, they couldn’t see them anymore. But they still were in range of the bullets that followed them from Winslow’s window. Even Florence could hear the very methodical sound of two particular guns, firing bullets in a steady a rhythm until they emptied them.

Many, _many_ bullets. She didn’t dare to look up again, at Eliot who was still hovering over the sofa, not moving, not talking – she just waited, as all of them waited, to hear anything from Hardison and Parker. Damn seconds lasted for years.

“Why's nobody talking?” Parker said after almost twenty seconds.

“Jesus, Parker!” Sophie gasped. “Maybe because we waited for you to tell us if you’re alive?!”

“Of course we are,” Parker sounded confused. “Hardison’s trying not to cry and we are two meters from the van. Can we stop somewhere to buy ice cream?”

“Get in, and shut up,” Nate’s voice, though still all business, had a lot of smile in it, and after the slamming of the van’s door that meant they were all safe, Florence took out her earbud.

She grabbed Orion who was carelessly walking by the sofa, and hugged him tight, causing him immediately start purring.

Jesus. She would never, never be able to write any action of this sort without feeling this strange mixture of panic and relief again; the adrenaline and fear were still fighting in her veins. She buried her face in his soft fur and closed her eyes, trying to get it together.

But Orion stopped purring and tensed in her arms like a spring – the cat was looking somewhere above her. She cautiously looked up, at Eliot who still remained in the same position, not taking his eyes from one particular camera. Florence glanced at the third floor again – the Red guards were in the corridor, talking, and the backs of other three had just disappeared at the stairs.

“Is everything alright?” she quietly asked.

“Of course.” His answer was automatic. He didn’t look at her. He slowly threw his earbud on the table, and rubbed his eyes.

“Okay,” she tried again. “What’s wrong?”

He waited until Red went after the rest of the guards, leaving the corridor empty, and then he turned to her, straightening himself up, very slowly.

Orion hissed and jumped away.

“Do you want to watch another episode, while we wait for them to come?” His voice sank into a dry whisper, and she bit off any comment about oxygen and stuff.

“No?” she said, waiting.

No response came. He simply turned around, darting a strange, quick smile, and moved away towards the kitchen. She thought he went for more coffee, but he went pass dining table to a window behind it, and leaned on the frame. She was pretty sure he wasn’t looking through it, his head was bowed.

Just great. She sighed and sank into sofa again, suddenly tired – this was a long, long day, and the end of it was not nearly in sight.

When a window crashed with a burst of glass, her first thought was of the eighteen windows her crew used while shooting the sniper scene until her director was satisfied with the spreading of the glass all around.

She jumped, half expecting to see him on the floor, but he was still standing, and watching his hand. The hand that went through the double glass only a second ago, Florence realized. _Shit_. 

Her hand slowly reached to the table, hidden by the sofa, taking her earbud.

Ten different approaches went through her head in one giant incoherent mess, every other one having Betsy in it, but she dismissed them all when Eliot stopped observing his hand, thrusting it into the glass again. Hit after hit, in a deadly precise rhythm, he continued to break all remains of the glass from the window frame – and it was a _huge_ window.

What would be next? Window or…? She put the earbud in her ear. “Nate – you better hurry up,” she whispered quietly, her voice trembling dangerously.

She should have listened to Orion, she thought, curling herself up on the sofa, trying to hide her fear – and trying to become invisible with every trick she could think of.

Before he turned around.

 


	9. Chapter 9

 

 

***

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More coffee. That was the only coherent thought that Eliot had in mind when he managed to unclench his grasp on the sofa. He was staring at the Red guards, reading their soundless words and gestures, barely aware of Florence’s questions. When the guards turned and walked away, he slowly exhaled. He _remembered_ their faces, and they were lucky - if he was near now, he would have a very hard time trying not to kill them. But if he met them somewhere else, later, they would maybe only get six months in a hospital. He ground his teeth, a muscle jumping in his jaw.

He had to calm down. _Now._

He had spent the past hour sitting stiffly, and he had to put an immense effort into forcing all the painfully knotted muscles to relax. 

That was a mistake. He was lucky his hands were still on the back of the sofa, and that kept him on his feet. Straightening up only made it worse, because his knees felt like rubber. Everything went grayish.

This quick adrenaline fall would shake him any time, but now, when he was barely able to sit, it was disastrous. The steady buzzing in his ears was a sure sign he was deteriorating very fast, and that he should try to get to the bed as soon as possible. Preferably while he was still standing. He slowly raised his left hand and pressed it on his temple, but it didn’t help, the hand went through his hair in an angry move he was barely aware of.

Of course he found himself going for more coffee, though he was pretty much certain he went to lay down and pass out. It was three in the morning, he said to himself – more coffee would do no good, it would only make the shaking stronger. Slowly, hesitating, he changed his course, and went to the window. Fresh air should clear his head a little. Oxygen would help him faster, but he needed, finally, cold air on his face. The walls of this dungeon were closing in. He rested his head on the glass and just stood there, resting, breathing; balancing relaxing with weakness was always interesting. He thought he was a master by now, but every day brought new challenges.

It took almost fifteen seconds before he realized he didn’t even think about the possibility of a sniper, that he was completely visible in a huge, lit window – an amateurish mistake he hadn’t made for years. Not only could he barely walk, he was also becoming reckless and sloppy.

He had to hold himself tighter to prevent eating the carpet, and his blood started to boil, slowly – all the rage and fear he had to hide in the last hour were burning their way out.

He was fucking forced to _sit by_ , and do nothing, he was closed into the ruined remains of a body that didn’t listen to him anymore, and they were again going after mob killers who might have more luck the next time… and he was _helpless_. Damn, he really needed that oxygen right _now_. But it was too far away. Instead of hyperventilating, he stopped breathing. Closed his eyes. Counted to ten.

He carefully forced his right hand to reach the latch. It worked. But then he tried to lift the window open… and the damn thing didn’t move an inch. _What the fuck…?_ He stared at it, not quite comprehending what just happened. He raised his hand to look at it – he knew it was shaking, but still, opening the window? _He couldn’t open the fucking window, he was too weak to_ … Stunned blinking only made everything more blurry, and he bit his lower lip to stop himself from baring his teeth. But he couldn’t stop the rage that always took over when despair grew stronger.

Without giving it any conscious thought, he just thrust his hand into the glass, becoming aware of it only when he heard the sound of shattered glass, and when pain sliced through him. He vaguely remembered that he was - _once_ \- capable of breaking any glass without cutting his hand. A little trick that only needed complete control, not strength; one had to calculate the distance in millimeters, and hit and stop his hand precisely at the impact point, not going that millimeter further into the shards.

Now, his hand went through. He observed all the cuts on that shaking piece of crap.

 _Calm down_.

He _was_ fucking calm.

And he was in fucking agony from what that vicious blow did to his stitches, setting his chest and shoulder on fire – but before he let the pain lower his right hand, he did it again. And again.

This time only the first glass broke, he managed to stop the blow two inches after the first glass – and the pain erased that damn numbness, his blurred vision was sharp again, and he felt _alive_. Not just an half empty shell. _He could do this_. Neither weakness nor the pain should lower his control – it was all in the head. Another blow. And another.

When the first pane was laying all around him he went onto the second without thinking twice, and he used pure anguish, gathering in him to direct his hand. Pain and rage could be used as fuel, he had done it many times, and he let them out with all the force, repeatedly, slamming his hand into the remains of the glass, until, finally, the last piece fell down. _Without_ cutting his hand.

He slumped forward and braced himself against the window frame when the exhaustion and pain hit him in full strength – the fire in his chest and arm kept a slow but steady burn – and only thing he could think of, with an aching head and empty mind, was how fucked up he really was. In more ways than one.

It took almost a minute before his breathing stopped being a ragged hiss and returned to regular, almost normal, and the anguish slowly ebbed away, leaving him tired almost to the point of passing out. Another minute passed before he collected enough strength to turn around and let go of the frame that supported him.

He had to take care of his hand, and the damn bathroom was on the other side of the fucking room. Well, step after step – there wasn’t any other way. The room only spun a little.

After three careful steps he became aware that not only did he forget about snipers, he forgot about Florence as well – but not before he saw something that looked like a pair of eyes peeking over the sofa’s back, under messy blonde whips. She ducked in a second.

 _Fucking wonderful_. He managed to get past the two stairs without falling, and mentally set a course to the bathroom; that way even if he blacked out, he would be able to keep himself in motion enough to reach the door - but he stopped by the sofa. He ought to say something to her. _And what the fuck could he say_? Nate needed a new window? Oh, you’re not sleeping yet?

She might have written seven action heroes, but she surely didn’t know anything about violence, about pain and tortured minds. It wasn’t her world. He wasn’t certain he could face her now – not because he didn’t want to see the fear in her eyes – no, he had no idea what was in _his_.

He stood there for a second, _knowing_ she was watching him; two worlds so separate, so distant, that maybe even the simplest communication wouldn’t be possible after this.

He was crushed on more levels than he knew he had. “Stay there,” he rasped, voice harsh and pained, not turning his head to the sofa. He couldn’t bear to see _normality_ in her eyes now, to remind himself of the gap between them, and much to his surprise, that gap hurt.

Well, nothing new. Move along.

So he moved, reached the bathroom with just one sway, and closed the door behind him.

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***

.

Nate was driving under the speed limit because they couldn’t risk the police attention, but Sophie was occupied with talking to Florence and it seemed they were home in a bit, though more than twenty minutes passed. She calmed her down using every trick she knew, but nothing could calm _her_. Nate’s scowl was showing the same worry, just like the strange silence from the back of the van showed that Parker and Hardison were both occupied with this… what the hell _was_ this, at all? Breaking a window? Yeah, as if it was just that… not now, not when Eliot was finally coming together and looked better. _Felt better_. It wasn’t the outburst of violence what was frightening her, it was… everything connected with it.

It was those twenty minutes of him alone in the bathroom.

Day after day, he was rebuilding his self control, and she dearly hoped this wasn’t regressing back to those terrible two days after they brought him home, when he had no idea whom he might kill next, barely surviving the almost fatal shock and on the verge of completely coming apart at the seams.

She had waited silently in the background all those days, just watching, doing nothing, but she was there. If she was needed, she was able to react in a second.

Now, Sophie knew waiting time was over, even before Nate nodded to her before they entered the apartment. _Do your job_. She smiled at Florence who was restlessly cleaning up the broken glass, and softly tapped on the bathroom door.

“Eliot Spencer, did you lock yourself up in the bathroom, like a sulking teenage girl, or I’m misinterpreting something?” she asked lightly, with a smile in her voice, completely hiding her worry and fear.

Silence was the only answer for two seconds. “It’s not locked,” he said finally, his voice completely normal. “I’ll be out in a few minutes.”

This wasn’t good. His defenses were all up again, and she’d learned that attacks were futile when his stubbornness built a wall that hid everything behind it. He would refuse to talk to her, or at least avoid any important subject. There was no way, even for her, to crush that wall, no weapons strong enough…the only hope was in sneaking around the wall unnoticed.

“No, you’re not coming out,” she said opening the door and stepping in, leaving the door half open. Her every word was loud and hard.

Eliot was sitting on the floor, resting his back against the bathtub, with things carefully arranged on the floor; scissors, tweezers, bandages and tape – he raised his head looking completely perplexed at the rude violation of private space; yes, there was a flicker of real anger in his eyes when she stepped over the line.

She quickly put a finger across her lips, and smiled. “I’m coming in, and we’re going to talk,” she continued in the same stern voice and then formed a silent ‘ _hide me’_ with her lips.

He just blinked.

She turned to the room behind her back. “Leave us alone until we come out,” she said, and closed the door, cutting them off. When she turned to him again, facing his eyes, not amused at all, she shrugged and raised her both hands. “I’m sorry. I won’t bother you, I’ll just sit here, I won’t say a word, I promise, you won’t even notice I’m here.”

“Sophie, what the hell are you-”

She slowly sat on the floor in her part of the bathroom, keeping the distance. “I’m tired, okay?” she snapped. “Tired of talking, explaining, and worrying – I want a little peace and quiet after tonight – and don’t tell me you don’t understand that. You’re the only one who won’t bother me with questions.” Eliot tilted his head a little, watching her. “And, I wanted to see how you’re doing,” she admitted with a small smile. “Can’t blame me for that.”

“I am leaving as soon as I finish this,” he pointed out. “You found the wrong place to hide.”

“Trust me, you don’t want to do that. Nate’s talking with Florence-” she noticed a slight flinch at that name, but went on. “Hardison is half ready to run a post action briefing, still high on caffeine, and Parker is mixing ice cream with cereal. And they're all talking at the same time. It’s bloody three in the morning!” She rested her head on the wall and closed her eyes.

She could sense his suspicion without looking at him. She also remembered what Nate had told them a few days ago when talking about Eliot: never, ever, let him smell your fear. She opened her eyes briefly, and smiled at him sweetly. “Of course, if you _want_ to talk about your feelings, problems and troubles, I’m all ears.”

He just rolled his eyes.

“Thought so,” she chuckled and closed her eyes again. “Thank you – I don’t think I would have the strength for that now. Pretend I’m not even here.”

Someone naïve would expect him to break the silence when it spread, but she knew him better, and prepared herself for a long rest. It _was_ comfortable here, she realized, feeling herself relaxing. The voices from the other room were just muffled background noises.

They didn’t _need_ to talk. She saw everything she needed to see in his eyes the first moment she entered. Their precious time bomb had only vented the pressure, and returned to its usual ticking, a steady rhythm, not the alarmingly fast ticking of one close to exploding.  He hadn’t regressed to nothing, he was okay, but…

She _wanted_ to talk to him. She needed to feel his pulse, and count all the dangerous spots. Poking at them – only that way she could know how he was, really, and what was just pretending.

Being okay, and pretending to be okay because _they_ needed him to be okay, was sometimes very hard to distinguish. Especially with him; he had years of practice at hiding his bruises and making them believe that stitches were just a decoration. For a man who was sometimes so easy to unnerve, whose fuse was extremely short, and who would snap at them for minor things, he had the strange ability of covering up everything he didn’t want them to see. And sometimes that was a large part of himself. To make him talk about That Night and about his recovery would be bloody impossible, maybe even for her.

At the moment he sensed she was anything except completely natural with him, earnest to the bone, he would close up again and she wouldn’t get a second chance.

Sophie opened her eyes and peeked at him; his head was bowed and he was deeply concentrated on the tweezers he had in his left hand. She almost squinted seeing him miss his right hand with it – his hands were shaking so hard it seemed he would drop the tweezers. She’d seen that so many times in the past few days, and yet, it still hurt to see those strong, always steady hands betraying him.

Whatever he was doing, it was futile. Okay, maybe he wasn’t as good as he tried to show, she thought, knowing his hands were still the main sign of his condition. Whenever he was lost in That Night again, he couldn’t stop it. It was less visible as time went by, but still present, giving them all a useful warning, showing them when it was time to pull him out of it by whatever means possible.

“Talking is sometimes much less disturbing than staring,” he said lightly, still not raising his head. Of course he knew the exact moment she looked at him. He sighed and put away the tweezers, then shook his head.

“Since I’m here already, I might as well help you,” she said evenly. “What are you doing, by the way?”

He flashed a smile at her. “Synchronizing the shaking frequency. It’s impossible to take out the small pieces of the glass when both hands are shaking in a different rhythm – I almost made them obey when you jumped in, after a long concentration,” he produced a wry smile. “It was interesting.”

She would bet it was – taking control of the involuntary shaking with pure concentration.

She slowly got up and went to him, sitting one step away for starters. He leaned back, she was already too close.

“C’mon,” she rolled her eyes with indignation. “Let me see that. It’s just a few cuts, for God’s sake, nothing I haven’t seen before.” She held out her hand and waited, knowing too well that the problem wasn’t with her helping him, or being too close, or holding his hand – it was the shaking and everything she could read from it. His shutting was almost visible, though he didn’t move, or change his expression; for him, it was like voluntarily putting his hand into a trap, waiting for the spring to jump.

For a one long moment she thought he would refuse, but much to her surprise he tilted his head a little, holding out his hand and resting his forearm on a raised knee.

And just like that, all her weapons were down, with that simple gesture of trust. He let her see his weakness, something the hitter never did.  The bastard knew exactly what he had done, he did it on purpose, and she hid a smile while taking the tweezers.

Never mind; she wasn’t going to press him now. This was just a first step, and no matter what he thought about this, he had no idea that his wall was cracked. She might be slow to conquer a territory, but she never retreated from the position she won. She could only go further.

The cuts weren’t deep, but she carefully searched every one for the glass, taking out small pieces. He probably regretted that he let her do this, because she felt him stiffening and the concentration he spent on trying to stop the shaking. His breathing was too even and controlled, his shoulders tensed as if he was ready to attack. She watched him falling into the circle – the more he was aware she could read every sign he gave out, the more signs he gave, and she could feel his anxiety rising with every thought.

“The fact that you’re holding on much better than any of us never ceases to astound me,” she said when he bowed his head and rubbed his forehead with his left hand. He looked at her through the hair, but she continued before he could say anything. “They don’t get it, not even Nate – he is projecting his own fears and traumas onto you, and he’s worried much more than he ought to be. The other two have no clue whatsoever – they are probably trying to figure you out through movie references. Thank God for that.”

“Never argue with a grifter digging through your hand with tweezers,” he said, and she chuckled, carefully putting away one small piece of glass. “But, what in your former experience can justify your conclusions?”

“I know _you_ ,” she simply said. “You are the strongest one. And I don’t let my own fears mess with that knowledge, like they do. You’re doing fine – you settled all the important things in your head, because you know how to do it, you did it before.” She felt a different tremor going through his hand she was holding, but the shaking moved slower. She could only imagine amount of the concentration he put into it. “Maybe it’s harsh to say it this way,” she went on, “but… dealing with the people you killed is not in numbers… it’s a procedure. If you know the drill, you can do it over and over again. Just like every bad thing in life.”

“You’re not _completely_ wrong,” he said carefully, his voice very flat and very controlled. She knew she was being observed and analyzed the same way she had done to him. “Good thing you didn’t come here to _talk_ with me, or I would be in trouble. This hiding and non talking is good. Anything else you want to non-talk about?”

“In fact, I do.” This time she looked him in the eyes, and let her gaze drift from his, returning it to his hand. “I have a… problem. Something that bothers me, and you are the only person who can give me the answer to my question, to explain to me... But not now, I can’t… later. One day.”

“Somethin’ I did?” he frowned.

Sophie stopped every move for a moment, completely still, hesitating. “No. Something _I_ did,” she whispered finally.

His surprise was expected. “Why not now?” he asked carefully.

“Because I can’t think about it right now, when we are all still distressed, when we have this network shit to solve, and when I have to concentrate on Hardison. And Parker,” she added quickly after one second.

And just like that, his hand was forgotten, shaking or not. Oh, she had his undivided attention now, and it wasn’t a very pleasant feeling; his scowl deepened.

“I think that’s the last piece,” she said putting away the tweezers. “Give me that antiseptic.”

“Sophie, what’s goin’…?”

“Forget I said anything, okay?” she snapped, not too harshly, just to show him she wasn’t satisfied with revealing that much, dosing it very carefully. “It’s late, and I’m not thinking straight – I should’ve known better than disturb you with other people’s problems. You have enough yours to fight. And no, I won’t say more – you of all people should know what an invasion of privacy is.”

He took one deep breath and held it – one more sign that escaped. He usually hesitated to do that, it was still painful, and she knew he was now going through all the possible trouble in his head. It was easy to stir up his paranoia and direct him away from his own troubles, to give him something else to think about. Because Sophie Deveraux knew how skilled he became during those few days, how perfectly he hid the drifting away, which was still too often.

She had spent hours and hours previous afternoon, silently observing his body language while watching the episodes, knowing every time he didn’t see the shooting and fights, counting all the scenes that threw him out of today, returning him to That Night. Too many of them. And returning to present was a slow and tiresome process, masked by his weakness. It tortured him, it kept throwing him out of balance, and he spent too much of his strength on that. He was using everything he could do to hide it from them, and all of them were deceived. Except her.

He needed, still desperately needed something that would occupy his thoughts, and though this job was doing it better than she expected, it wasn’t enough. Yet, there was one thing that Eliot Spencer couldn’t control, and that was his protective instinct – instead of drowning in his own nightmares, he’d now use every opportunity to watch Hardison, maybe even Parker, trying to figure out what was wrong.

She felt a little sorry for them – but they _did_ need it, too. Damn, every one of them still did.

She finished with the antiseptic and covered the smallest cuts with band aids, the bigger ones with gauze, and all that time he just watched her.

“You see? Non–talking works perfectly,” she said.

“Yep. I can’t imagine what crap you would fill my head with if we actually talked,” he said softly, and she broadened her smile. He had mastered his masks and defenses to perfection, but she never underestimated him, no matter how far in the background he kept himself, always behind every one of them, in more ways than one.

She tapped his hand, gently, glancing at his amused, but slightly annoyed eyes. God, she loved him so much – and she still felt pure happiness every time she looked at him, just because he was alive.

The moment she released his hand, he crossed his arms, resting on the bathtub again, hiding with immense effort the warmth that radiated from his eyes, too.

“You won’t bitch me out about the window?” he asked gruffly.

She smiled. “No, I’m too jealous. I envy you, Eliot Spencer. I’d like to have one window for myself when I need to smash something, but decent ladies are not supposed to break things. Yet, you’ll have to say something to Florence.”

His eyes darkened immediately, and she felt her own eyes narrowing, and quickly returned the smile to them.

“She’s okay,” she carefully said. “Normal. I talked to her, you don’t have to explain anything, just… well, smile. Be nice. Whatever,” she trailed off, suddenly realizing how strange it was telling him what to say to the _woman_. Not just strange, it was unheard of – just as much as the grim edge in his eyes was, when talking about something feminine and cute.

“Yep, _normal_ , I know. Don’t worry,” he grimaced. “Never scare the client, right?”

“Exactly,” she quickly confirmed, making a mental note to think about that strange bitterness later, and gathered up all the things from the floor. “Only right hand, nothing else?” She almost asked him why he used his right hand that he had to spare as much as he could, but stopped in time. He just shook his head in response, still sitting.

She started to return everything to the cupboards, but she watched him out of the corner of her eye – he put both his hands on his tights and just stared at them. They were still shaking.

When he rose his head to her, with darkened, thoughtful eyes, she knew some decision had been made.

“Soph, when you come tomorrow, can you buy almonds?” he asked, and she blinked – it wasn’t what she expected.

“What? I mean, yes, of course. How many?”

“As much as you can carry. And lots of powdered sugar.”

Great. She thought he was finally deciding to do something with that damn shaking, and he was thinking about desserts. She sighed and shook her head. Men were…impossible.

“Of course. Almonds and sugar. Got it. The first thing in the morning.”

He just smiled. And continued to sit there, not moving.

It wouldn’t be easy for him to get up from the floor – she saw how pale he was and she knew that this outburst must have cost him more than he was willing to admit even to himself, much less to someone else, so she just smiled and finished with cupboards.

“Don’t fall asleep there,” she said opening the door. “Betsy will say we’re torturing you.”

“And you’re not?” he murmured, barely audible.

She chuckled and closed the door behind her, letting him get up slowly, on his own.

.

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	10. Chapter 10

 

 

***

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.

“It’s breakfast! Cereal for breakfast is a must-have!”

“It’s not dawn yet, Parker, and you are going home in a few minutes, and get some sleep,” Nate patiently explained to an unnerved Parker who filled a bowl with ice cream and cereal, enough for all six of them.

Florence had no intention of interfering in that, and it seemed Hardison wasn’t planning on doing that either – he was going through data on the big screens, entirely absorbed in it.

Data that they _stole_ from her network.

She sat slumped in a chair, watching Nate and Parker arguing, but her mind was far away, lost in  images of the police surrounding the apartment as they spoke, red and blue light flashing in front of McRory’s, and jumping into the apartment and catching them all red-handed. She could see tomorrow’s newspaper’s headlines: FAMOUS TV AUTHOR’S HIRED GANG ROBBED HER NETWORK’S HQ. GUARDS STILL IN SHOCK.

The image was so vivid in her mind that she glanced at the window, half expecting to see flashing lights.  At the _broken_ window.

She moaned inwardly, and changed the headlines: “3 POLICEMAN TORN APART WHEN ATTACKED BY A MADMAN WHO CAME THROUGH THE WALL OF THE BATHROOM. TV AUTHOR CLAIMS SHE DIDN’T KNOW WHOM WAS SHE HIRING. _They looked decent and nice, the accused criminal revealed in tears_.”

The worst part of it, tomorrow… no, today, she had to go there, into the C4 building, to a meeting with the producers and press. The police would still be there, and it would be a classic instance of returning to the crime scene. She glanced at herself, at her shabby pants and old shirt she was wearing – makeup, a fancy suit and high heels would surely cover up all the traces of her spending the night plotting the robbery. Jesus, she was incapable of hiding the guilt, they would _see_ that in her eyes, they’d know she was hiding something, and if the police started to ask something, anything, she just knew she would-

“Florence,” Nate’s voice brought her out of the panicking thoughts. Just then she noticed they had stopped talking, and both of them were watching her.

“I have the meeting this afternoon in that building, and I have to go there,” she said.

“Good. Sophie and I will go with you,” he nodded. “We have to finish what we started.”

And what the fuck have _we_ started, she wanted to scream at him, but closed her mouth.

“You…you…,” she said, cleared her throat, and continued. “I’m aware I asked for this. I’m very grateful for what you did. But, I have no idea _what_ you did, and I’m too frightened to continue. Can we just stop doing it? I…I… I know you’re criminals, and it’s okay. No one will know, I promise.”

“Nah, promises, promises… not good enough,” Hardison said. “Nate, we’ll have to kill her.”

She slowly turned around and met his smile. Parker giggled.

“We _were_ criminals, once,” Hardison continued gently. “We don’t do that anymore. We just use slight the irreverence of the law while doing our job, and our job is to help people. You’re human, ergo, you’re people, ergo, we help.”

“And we don’t leave our job unfinished,” Sophie stated behind her; she didn’t hear her leaving the bathroom. The dark haired woman sat next to Nate, darting him a smile that caused him to nod, and then turn to her again. “You see, no one is stopping you, you can leave – yet, your series will die, and you’ll die too. Those mobsters will continue to chase you.”

“We can stop that by tonight,” Nate finished.

Florence took one deep breath. Her mind was empty.

“And if you - what will be your next, slightly illegal step, in all this?” she asked wearily.

“Misrepresentation. No burglary, stealing or breaking into anything,” said Ford. “That part is done, from now on the police will work for us.”

She stared at him, knowing he wouldn’t tell her anything specific, and not sure if she should be pissed off because of that, or grateful he was not involving her.

“In short, we are the good guys,” Hardison finished.

“No, you’re not,” Florence murmured. “My characters are good guys – they obey the law as much as they can, they fight for justice, and they use their skills for good. But guess what, they’re _fictional_.”

Hardison looked at Nate. “What now, man? She just proved we don’t exist. Maybe we should just disappear in a puff of logic.”

“The point is, people don’t change, unless they find Jesus, Allah, FSM or something else… which you surely didn’t.”

“She’s right.” Eliot’s voice from behind almost made her squeak – _damn those people and their sneaking around_ – and she carefully glanced at him when he approached the table. He didn’t look like a madman, and the band aids on his hand were the only trace of breaking the window.

“She is _not_ right,” Hardison’s voice went hard, but Eliot said nothing to him, slowly lowering himself in a chair.

“I’m sorry I scared you,” he said. She was glad he didn’t use _that_ smile, he was serious.

“It’s okay,” she smiled nervously.

“And I’m sorry I was selfish – next time I’ll ask you to join me. There’s plenty of windows left for both of-”

“Hey! Not in my apartment!” Nate frowned.

“And not in my building!” Hardison followed.

Florence nodded, hiding her smile. She meant to say something, but Sophie stopped her, waving one elegant hand in her direction. “Florence, sometimes you don’t have to change. It’s enough just to stop.”

“People. Can. Change,” Hardison went on. She knew him enough already that she could tell this was being said uncharacteristically harsh for him. He stared at them at the table for a few moments. _Here we go again_ , she thought – another undercurrent in the room that she should try to solve.

“You’re wrong,” she said, not able to contain herself. “Mind set and character define you, and your behavior is written in your genes. You can think you changed, but if you’re killer, that which made you kill didn’t disappear, it’s still in you, inside.”

She was absolutely certain that choosing the word killer was a wise move, that she avoided all _their_ possible crimes – but when a frigid silence spread over the table, she just knew she blew it again. She should _really_ stop talking.

“Speaking of killers,” Eliot was the first to break the silence. Only he seemed untouched by her words. _What, all the rest of them were killers_?  “Nate, the Red guards-”

“Stop it,” Hardison growled, cutting him off. “Florence, you may be right. Maybe people can’t change.” He sent an angry look all around the table, then continued. “But, people can _upgrade_ themselves. We all work on our basic Operating System, but we can choose what programs and applications we’ll add to it. And we chose the way those will upgrade our OS. Some people end up with components that are incompatible, and burn their processor up, but if you chose wisely, you’ll find those who will enhance your performance.” He pointed one accusing finger to the group at the table, still frowned. “Don’t tell me I’m wrong. ‘Cause I’m not, and you know it. We all know what we’ve chosen, and what changes that made.”

Eliot sighed. “That was so… poetic,” he said thoughtfully.  Sophie and Nate hid a smile, but Parker looked at Hardison with wide open eyes.

“You mean, when Eliot teaches me to shoot, I’ll be upgraded?” she asked Hardison.

Eliot bowed his head, pinching the bridge of his nose, eyes closed. “I’m not teaching you to shoot, Parker. Ever,” he said slowly, all traces of mocking gone from his voice. “So, Nate, the Red guards-”

“But it would be useful-”

“The fucking Red guards,” he raised his voice, giving it vicious metal edge. “Decided not to call the police. The fucking Red guards said they don’t have time to deal with cops, because they have to bring in the last three packages right after their shift ends!”

Nate tilted his head to the left, slightly narrowed his eyes and smiled. “That’s… interesting,” he said.

What the hell was that? Florence was positive that recording didn’t have audio – but then she remembered with what concentration Eliot had stared at the Red Guards when they talked in the corridor. He _read_ what they said.

“They also said that Steve and the other two will be easy to persuade, because they are higher than them in the organization,” Eliot continued. “It seems that Dvorak Security has dual employee lists – regular guys like Steve, working only on surveillance, and those like Red that are part of the mob.”

“But if they don’t call the police,” Florence jumped in. “You said that the police will work for us after this…I don’t get it. Is it important that the police knows about it, or is it better that they are not warned?”

“Both ways would work. Plan A went fine, but ended with the second part of Plan B, with a slight touch of Plan C,” Nate explained, obviously thinking that was an _explanation_. “The results of all of them are good for us. Eliot, anything else? Any details about the packages?”

“Nothing, they turned around after one minute and followed the rest out of the corridor.”

She had to find out more about tomorrow, and she waved an impatient hand in front of Nate. “Why are only you and Sophie going with me?”

“Because three of us are not necessary.”

“And what you will do?”

“Talk to people.”

“About what?”

“Things,” the bastard actually smiled. “Don’t worry, we’ll go together, but we’ll separate when we arrive, no one will connect us to you. You see, if you don’t know anything, you can go with a free conscience and say you don’t know anything, if asked.” Nate glanced at his watch. “Okay, that’s it. Go home, get some sleep – it’s already too late. We’ll continue after everybody gets some rest.”

Hardison and Parker went first, and Sophie followed shortly after Florence told her she didn’t need her there during the night to feel safer. Just after she left, she reconsidered her decision, when an awkward silence spread over the table where the three of them were still sitting.

No, she wouldn’t start any conversation, not about That-whatever-you-say-it’s-wrong-Night, nor changeable-nonchangeable-killers.

“I’ll sleep on the sofa tonight,” she stated shortly. If _that_ hit some undercurrent, well, that was their problem. She was too tired to care. Besides, it was her second night here, and Nate should sleep in his bed. “Orion won’t go upstairs,” she added, pointing at the white fur on Nate’s shirt. He changed twice today, she noticed, but in vain. That stopped any argument he was preparing, and he just nodded and left, with a tired ‘good night’.

Before she could start regretting her decision, Eliot got up from the table.

“You won’t mind two laptops turned on? Hardison’s is set on surveillance cameras, and I have something to do on mine.”

“Sure. What are you doing?”

He squinted before he turned around. “I have a pumpkin field to take care of,” he sighed, going to the bed.

Florence just hid her smile.

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***

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When something hit her nose, Florence sleepily rubbed her face. The second ‘something’ made her turn over, dragging the blanket along, but the third forced her to open her eyes. She turned onto her back and stared into the darkness, having no idea what was happening. It took five seconds before she remembered where she was.

The fourth tin foil ball went over the back of the sofa, falling almost vertically to her nose again, and she rose up, pissed off. She peeked over it, at Eliot who was sitting in his bed with both laptops, one on the table by the bed, one in his lap. He gave her the sign to stay silent, and waved to the stairs.

“Go get Nate,” his whisper was barely audible.

What the fuck? She opened her mouth to send him to the most obscene place she could think of, but then she remembered that he probably couldn’t climb up those stairs, at least not fast. Right, fighting killers he could do, but walking? Nope, suddenly too demanding. She murmured something unrecognizable, dragging herself from the sofa. It wasn’t the most comfortable place she’d slept in.

Her mind cleared a little in those few steps she made; he wasn’t waking Nate up to make him coffee. _Something was happening_.

She hurried up the stairs, burst into Nate’s room and shook him violently, not thinking about all the possible risks of alerting the eventual non-changeable killer. “Wake up! Eliot is calling you!” She didn’t wait for an answer, just for him to open his eyes, then turned and went back. She was barefoot so she didn’t make any noise when she stormed down the stairs, but she surely was breathless and half panicking when she landed safely after almost stumbling and breaking her neck.

“Thank you,” Eliot smiled over the laptop. “Would you be so kind and make some coffee, sweetheart?”

For the second time in thirty seconds, Florence opened her mouth to send him to… and of course, she closed it again. He had the same hypnotic calm in his voice as Jethro did that time he said, “I don't want to worry you, but that strange noise _might_ mean our brakes just locked.” She could never understand how clever men, and this was definitely clever, thought they could get away with that shit.

Unless that voice was the way they calmed _themselves_ down, she thought with an evil grin.

Nate coming down the stairs spared her from answering that, and instead of coffee, she went to the dining table and brought herself a chair.

“What’s happening?” Nate’s disheveled appearance would have fooled her, if she hadn't heard his voice, completely awake and very concentrated.

“Just one visitor this time,” Eliot turned the laptop toward him so he could see the screen, and Florence grabbed the chair and circled around the bed to place it near Nate. The familiar corridor was empty. “He just went into B2. Hardison took care of the cut off power and telephone line, but he didn’t have time to do something with the door. This one came ready to repeat the previous night, but he found a broken lock. Now, he’ll see that the apartment is abandoned and empty.”

“Is that a good or bad thing?” She had no idea what to think about it, her mind still half sleeping.

“Could be both,” Nate said. “It’s showing that they won’t give up – and don’t forget, they returned to the crime scene and broke the police seal, and that’s very risky. They _really_ want that recording. At the same time, they’ll see you’re definitely not there anymore, and they’ll have to widen their search.”

Eliot put the corridor recording in the upper left corner of the screen, and pulled up three other screens that Hardison had left open, checking the nearby cameras.

“You think he’s not alone?” Nate asked.

“I would be,” Eliot said. “But he probably has someone waiting in the getaway car somewhere close.”

Nothing moved during the next two minutes, they both just watched the recordings, and Florence shifted uncomfortably. “Do you still want that coffee?” she asked when she thought her eyes would close. Eliot nodded, and she noticed Nate’s quick sideway glance at him. Just then she realized Eliot wasn’t sleeping at all, the second night in a row. And he didn’t change back into the pajamas, he was still in the sweatpants and shirt.

She knew sleeping disorders well, when deadlines caught up with her and when she was living on coffee and Red Bull, writing maniacally 20 hours a day, but this man had nothing similar that would keep him awake. He just… stayed awake. And according to the reactions of the others, that wasn’t something they welcomed. Whatever was happening, she noticed, he was the center of their attention, and everything they did was adjusted to him. That was intriguing, she had to admit to herself. She was watching them from the kitchen, waiting for the coffee to be ready, thinking they’d forget about her and start talking more openly.

Of course it was a fool’s hope - after just five seconds of her staring, Eliot raised his head and looked at her, and she barely had time to make herself busy with cups and sugar. They stayed silent, as if they didn’t have anything to say to each other now that she wasn’t near, as if she was the reason they talked at all.

When she returned with the coffee, Nate sat on the table, glancing at the other laptop with a very confused expression.

“What?” Eliot asked, not taking his eyes from the live feed. “I learned how to make my farm look 3D, with fences. Betsy is proud. Now, come here and find out how to record this damn feed.”

“Hardison is not recording that automatically?”

“How the hell should I know that? You mean you don’t know either?”

“Nope. Try pressing that butt-”

“Are you nuts? You can’t go and press random things, that much even I know. He would bitch for hours. Florence, do you record your door camera on your laptop, or it does it have its own… something?”

She moved closer to see the interface. “Nope, my something looks different than this something. I wouldn’t try anything.”

“And there he goes…” Eliot said when a man carefully came out of B2, putting back the broken seal. “New face, not one of those two.”

“If my power is up, I can go and check my camera to see if it continued recording,” Florence said. “It’s a slim chance, but-”

“No,” Eliot cut her off shortly.

“When this guy goes away, it won’t be dangerous to just quickly-”

“Nope. Maybe tomorrow. Not now, not tonight, okay?”

“Okay,” she agreed, but only because it was clear he thought he had to go with her, and he wasn’t looking forward to it.

Nate said nothing, just rubbed his face, looking at them both with unreadable eyes.

“So, he searched the apartment once more, right, and that’s it?” Nate said lightly. Florence immediately caught that tone; strangely, it seemed Eliot didn’t, he returned to eyeing the interface as if Nate didn’t say anything. That only sharpened her attention.

“He won’t come back tonight, if that’s what you’re asking,” Eliot said after a moment’s pause. “You both can go back to sleep now.”

“I don’t know why we were woken up at all,” Florence said, suppressing a yawn.

“Just in case – if this wasn’t just one more search, I wanted you awake and able to react, if necessary.”

“To react?” she blinked. “Two of us? How?”

“He means, able to hide, or run, or lock ourselves up,” Nate explained, with not a completely pleasant voice. Eliot just smiled at that.

“What if they knocked on our door? Why aren’t you armed?” she grumbled at him.

He froze. She could _see_ his mind going blank – the feeling she knew too well – as if seven different answers ran through his brain at the same time, and clogged at the same place.

“He doesn’t like guns,” Nate said shortly.

“I don’t like going to hairdresser, too, yet when I have to go, I go,” she retorted. “When the need is dire, one must protect himself – or the people around him. Liking or not liking that doesn’t matter.”

Eliot turned to her as if he was about to say something, but then he looked at her hair, and small smile played over his face. Oh. Now it was her turn to freeze. Why had she mentioned the damn hairdresser, _why_? She knew that the left side of her hair was completely pressed against her head, and the right side was going in all directions in messy spikes – one of the many advantages of having a short hair cut.

“Don’t,” she threatened through gritted teeth.

“I would _never_ ,” he said solemnly, but the corners of his eyes were crinkled in a hidden smile.

Nate cleared his throat.

“In case you didn’t notice, he left. We should all go to sleep,” Eliot said, pushing the laptop into Nate’s hands. He pulled the blanket over his waist, crossed his arms and waited. “I’m tired,” he finished gruffly.

“Right,” Nate said softly, getting up, leaving the laptop beside the other on the table.

Florence didn’t wait to see why Nate was still watching him so thoughtfully. “Good night,” she said and went back to the sofa. Nate followed in one minute and disappeared upstairs.

And of course, she should have expected it… she couldn’t sleep.

The blue laptop light wasn’t the problem, it was her mind, running around in circles. She stared at the six giant screens, dead and dark on the wall – the sofa was facing them. It wasn’t that she was aware that Eliot was still awake – the back of the sofa was a shield that guarded her from his bed, right behind it, under that very strange picture on the wall. He couldn’t see her at all.

All this shit mixed with her ideas for future episodes, as she drifted off and on again, with the five of them in New York, and her seven in Boston, in this apartment – even on the verge of sleep she was amused by her own thoughts; keeping them separated sounded like a good idea. She got to know the five enough to know that that meeting would be a slaughter, on so many levels. But it would be such a great episode to write, a damn clash of the titans. How the hell could bad guys do good by doing bad things? When she figured it out, she would find a way to incorporate that in her series – if it was possible at all.

A soft click from somewhere by the door stirred her and brought her back to reality; she held her breath, listening. Eliot must have heard that, she thought, but Murphy’s Law always hit hard. He could be sleeping by now, completely out.

Without any sound, still not breathing, she slowly rose up – his bed was empty. The clicking sound she heard was him at the door, leaving the apartment.

Okay, he went to check her peep hole camera, she thought sleepily, _nothing to worry about_. He just didn’t want her along and she could understand that.

Right at the moment she turned around and decided to keep her eyes closed, she heard another sound – this time it was Nate, picking up the laptop from the table. He wasn’t as silent as the rest of them. He went to the kitchen and she heard the clinking of a bottle and a glass.

The other one would return in a few minutes, then they’d talk again, and she deeply regretted that she offered those sleeping arrangements. Her watch showed it was four in the damn morning, but sleep was now too far away. She sighed, wrapped herself in the blanket and joined Nate at the dining table.

“Maybe he’s sleepwalking,” she murmured sitting in the chair, but she got only a twist of his mouth as a response. He tried to smile, and failed.

“What?” she asked, knowing she wouldn’t get an answer. She was right. She looked at the laptop to check. Nothing on it, just an empty corridor – Eliot was clearly in her apartment, and she almost smiled picturing him trying to figure out her interface.

Silence spread and she rested her back on the chair, watching Nate watching the screen, and just then she realized how tense he was. He didn’t hear him leaving, but he knew Eliot would wait for them to fall asleep and do this. And something about that wasn’t quite right, according to his silent attention.

“If you knew he was planning this, why did you leave, why didn’t you say you’d wait here until he returns?”

He hesitated a moment before he answered. “Sometimes it’s better to not interfere with other people’s choices and decisions, and let them think and decide on their own. Especially when it’s-” he bit his lip, and she knew he knew exactly what Eliot was doing. “Especially when it might affect… never mind. It’s better this way, okay?”

“Okay,” she said, remembering she didn’t see Eliot actually _entering_ B2 – he maybe wasn’t even there. When they were at the C4 building, Nate said Eliot wasn’t able to climb down the stairs, and what if he went to practice? At four in the morning?

She tiredly rubbed her eyes. Maybe all of them were watching over him because he was mentally disabled, she thought bitterly.

An idea formed in her mind, and she got up and went back to the sofa and the small table, where he left his earbud before he went amok on the window. It wasn’t there. Great, she didn’t notice him being less than a meter from her, and she was _awake_.

“He took his earbud with him,” she said to Nate when she returned.

“Well, that’s an improvement.” Nate’s smile was wry. He tented his fingers, elbows on the table, and continued to wait, watching the empty corridor as if it was the most exciting thing in the world.

She joined him in silence, taking care not to close her eyes longer than a second – as the minutes crawled by, it was harder and harder to keep them open. Before she could carefully suggest that Eliot might pass out there, wherever he was, and that they should go and check, he appeared on their screen. He _was_ in B2, and her confusion went up a level.

Nate’s relief was almost palpable, though he didn’t move.

Eliot didn’t look surprised when he faced a greeting committee. He leaned on the kitchen counter with one shoulder, almost invisible in the dark room lit only by the laptop.

“You should have been sleeping,” he whispered breathlessly. “This matter is easier to discuss in the morning… in the light.” He kept his hand on the counter while coming closer; he didn’t stop there to watch them, he was collecting the strength for the two small stairs.

Florence kept her mouth shut. His words scared her as much as his voice, but when she saw what he carefully put on the table, right before their faces, she froze completely.

The bomb still had wires in it – a strangely small black package with the timer that radiated a threat even when disarmed. The visitor wasn’t searching for the recording – he planted this to kill her if she returned.

Nate didn’t even glance at it, he just finished his glass in one long sip. She remembered his words now; he knew what Eliot was searching for.

Eliot leaned on the table with both hands, clearly keeping himself upright, and Florence could recognize how deeply exhausted the man was when she saw new dark shadows beneath his eyes.

She definitely didn’t want to be here when Betsy came again, she thought, trying not to look at the black thing on the table.

“Don’t touch it… it has a switch on it,” his whisper was raspy and tired. “And don’t let Parker play with it.”

Nate just continued to look at him.

“No, I _shouldn’t_ ,” Eliot replied to the words he didn’t say. “There was no point in you standing there in the hall… waiting and worrying. Restrain your control issues, Nate.”

“The team, Eliot,” Nate’s first words were slow and accented, his voice brutally clear. “Do I have to remind you of that, _again_? We watch each other’s back.”

“You just did,” Eliot slowly pointed at the laptop. _His_ voice went very low. “As close as I would allow you, anyway.”

Florence squinted at the enormous amount heat this short exchange created, and she didn’t know where to look while two of them stared at each other, pissed off. No, she corrected herself; they weren’t pissed off, this was something much worse. Silent rage radiated from the two men, one hot, one cold. She settled her gaze on the bomb – it actually calmed her down.

Eliot shook his head and took one deep breath, then slowly straighten himself up again. “Go to sleep,” he whispered and turned around.

They both watched him going to the bed; he stumbled by the shelf, but regained his balance and reached the bed, yet he didn’t lie down, he collapsed onto it. Florence bit her lip, unnerved. He fell face down and didn’t move, his immobility was unnatural, and his arm was hanging off the edge…

Nate poured another drink.

“Don’t,” he said shortly when she started to get up. “Let him be.”

“He is unconscious, you know that, right?  That’s dangerous, we should-”

“I know. That was kind of the point of these two insanely exhausting days.”

She couldn’t believe his calmness. “We should call-”

“Betsy knows. Let it go, Florence.”

Jesus, they were all insane. Completely, utterly, fucking insane.

She clutched her blanket like a shield, took one deep, calming breath, and hoisted herself up. “Good night, Nate,” she said. He nodded, staring at the glass.

Rude.

She almost growled when she heard – again – quiet steps.

She gathered all the blankets, ready to cover herself up – no, to burrow herself deep under them so she couldn’t see any of them going, coming, leaving or entering, the damn lunatics - but before that she looked over the back of the sofa one more time.

Nate’s profile was bluish from the monitor light; he was sitting in the chair by the hospital bed with his legs stretched out, glass of whiskey in his hand, silently watching over the fallen man.

And she knew she would never be able to understand all the invisible ties that bonded these strange people.

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	11. Chapter 11

 

 

***

.

.

.

“If you do that again, I’m not responsible for my actions. Step. Away. From. Him.”

For crying out loud, couldn’t she wake up, for once, just once, to a normal morning, with coffee and breakfast, and _silence_? Florence sighed, opening her eyes. Eliot’s voice sounded tense, and she slowly sat up, to see what the hell was happening now. The prospect of mafia killers having broke into the apartment only made her grumpy, not scared – she was so pissed off that she would deal with them all by herself, just to return to sleep for a few more hours.

“Meow?”

“Don’t you meow at me, it’s not working. I said move.”

 _Shit_. She jumped up, facing Eliot and Orion who were staring at each other; the man in the bed, the cat on the table, switching his tail. Orion’s right paw was in the air, he was reconsidering the odds; when he heard her getting up, the paw went – again, obviously – into the soil of the plant that was placed on the table. With a victorious jerk, he pulled, and the soil went all over the table. She knew the exact amount of triumph in his eyes when he looked at Eliot.

A soft chuckle from the dining table located Sophie, with a magazine and coffee, fresh and beautiful, with her hair falling on her shoulders in perfect, shiny locks. When, for god’s sake, _when_ did she have time to look so awfully… impeccable? Florence ran her hand through the mess on her head, and went to save Orion. Or Eliot. Or kill them both. Whatever.

“Glaring the cat down doesn’t work, Eliot,” Sophie said. “It just makes it interesting for him, and encourages him to do it again.”

“I thought that only applied to Parker,” he murmured, hitting the cat directly on the nose with a foil ball.

Florence hurried up when she saw the triumphant look in Orion’s eyes – one more human bent to his will, forced to play with him.

“Sorry about that,” she grumbled, picking the cat up. Orion flapped his paws trying to catch the plant, but she put him on the bed and distracted him with the other balls. When she looked at Eliot she quickly changed her mind, rolled one ball onto the floor and sent the cat after it. He looked as if he was barely able to keep his eyes open, and a cat jumping all over the bed was the last thing he needed right now. His oxygen mask was on the bed, near his hand.

He just motioned it was okay and closed his eyes, so she moved away to gather her things and to go to the bathroom.

Orion was still busy with the balls when she returned, with Sophie’s help, so she joined her.

“Eliot told me about our visitor,” Sophie said; the bomb was now sitting on the newspapers, as if there was nothing strange about having a bomb on the dining table. Maybe for them it wasn’t strange. “How are you holding up?”

“I’m getting used to this; one more reason for concern.”  She heard the sound of a shower above their heads, and she glanced at the bed, knowing that Nate would soon join them. “It was pretty intense between the two of them because of that bomb,” she finished in a low whisper.

“You don’t have to whisper,” Sophie’s voice went just one nuance lower than usual. “He can’t hear this – we've found the exact volume that can’t reach the bed. Plenty of time to practice in the past few days. And don’t worry about them bitching at each other, it’s a usual thing.”

All of this was normal for them, obviously. Sophie was dressed in a fancy dark suit and dark red silk blouse, and it was only – she checked her watch – six hours after she had left the apartment, in the middle of the night. And she looked like she was ready for the exciting day.

“I brought you the things you asked for, and put them in the kitchen,” Sophie said to Eliot, slightly raising her voice. “If you need anything else, tell me now so I can direct Hardison to get it. He’s on his way.”

“Thanks, Soph,” Eliot responded. “Nothing for now.”

He sounded as bad as he looked, and Florence frowned – quieter or not, their voices would be constant background noise and he wouldn’t be able to rest. But if they didn’t pay any attention to that, she shouldn’t as well.

Yet, she wasn’t quite able to keep her mouth shut, ever. “More than ten days have passed since he was shot,” she said reluctantly. “Why is he still so…not well?”

“Because the bullet isn’t what’s problem here,” Sophie said quietly. Damn, those dark eyes were so disturbing when she eyed her, deciding how much to tell her.

“I don’t get it,” she said, confused.

“Well, it _is_ a problem – he took a bullet in the chest, and that would have killed any other man, but…” Sophie smiled and shook her head. “It’s just… we’ve gotten so used to thinking he’s indestructible, that him going down shook us all. So we weren’t surprised when he got up on the third day and went to finish his job. I think that deep inside all of us expected that – no, worse – to be honest, we _welcomed_ it because the indestructibility was back, and the world was in order again. We thought we would just grab him after That Night, bitch him out a lot, and he’d continue to recover in peace,” she entwined her long fingers and looked at them for a moment; when she raised her head again and looked at her, her eyes were even darker. “Well, we were wrong. He paid for getting up, heavily,” her voice turned bitter. “When we finally caught up with him, we were almost too late. Betsy said it was a question of minutes – his blood loss was almost fatal, he was in severe hypovolemic shock, balancing on the verge of organ failure and brain damage for one entire day. Oxygen deprivation. It’s only been six days since we were sure he'd live… and only three days since he got up for the first time. If he was only shot, he would be almost okay by now – but those complications messed up everything, he’s too weak. If the situation was normal, Betsy would keep him in hospital for weeks now.”

“What’s stopping her?”

“The hospitals are still full of people that fought each other That Night.”

“And it wouldn’t be wise to let them see the man who was very active in making that happen?”

Sophie slowly tilted her head and smiled. So, _that_ was the piercing look she wrote so many times, and her actors only managed to make it look as if they were shortsighted… Florence smiled and shrugged when Sophie said nothing. “Look, my mind works in plots and scenes – the situation you were in only had several ways of being solved, and pushing your enemies to fight one another is the most economical. I would write something like that if I was not bound to heroic actions with a lot of explosions and car chases.”

“To know a little about something is more dangerous than to know nothing at all, dear.”

Nate coming downstairs stopped her from answering, and left her wondering if Sophie’s words were a warning, or just advice. She might have written dangerous and life-threatening situations… but this woman was living them.

“Good morning, Eliot, good morning, George,” Nate said passing by the bed, and got some growling as an answer. _Who the fuck is George_? She dearly hoped Nate wasn’t greeting that picture that hung behind Eliot’s bed.

Nate was wearing an awfully cheap gray suit, and his hair was greased and pulled back from his forehead. Only somewhat dull eyes revealed that his night was as exciting as hers was.

“Ready for our final dealing with Michael Wright, Florence?” he asked fighting with his tie, so Sophie helped him. His voice was also quieter than usual.

“No, I’m not, I have no idea what’s going on. But you obviously are ready.”

“Yes we are,” he smiled, running over the implied question. “Or, we’ll be ready this afternoon. You said it’s an afternoon meeting, right?” He turned to the bed pulling his tie, ruining everything that Sophie did. “You won’t make any lunch today, Eliot?”

“Are you trying to piss me off for some reason, or are you just bored? Do I look like I’m able to make. fucking. lunch?”

“So, that’s no, right?” Nate looked surprised when Sophie slapped his hand away and tightened the tie again. “The three of you will stay here – do you want Parker to make something?”

The gasp was heard very clearly. “Order a pizza, for god’s sake, food poisoning is the last thing I need right now.”

“That’s just hurtful,” Parker said calmly, mouth full of cereal.

Florence slowly turned to the girl that was sitting on the counter enjoying her breakfast, surprised mostly by her own lack of surprise at her materializing from out of nowhere.

“You _are_ aware that you’re not allowed to get up for the next nineteen and a half days, if we calculate in the twenty three point five hours of rest that Betsy ordered in past two days which you disobeying her?” Parker continued very sternly, with no trace of a smile. “I was _thinking_ , Eliot.”

“Dear God. Take me with you. I can lay in the van.”

“Nope,” Nate smirked. “We’ll eat out after we finish with Florence’s meeting. We need fresh air, walking in the breeze, sun on our faces…”

“I would snap you in the half if that didn’t mean there would be two halves of you being smart ass bastards at the same time,” Eliot growled. Florence noticed that he put his mask on after replying – the conversation was over.

Nate’s smirk disappeared when he sat down at the table and she realized he was testing him to see how he was doing – and it seemed that he wasn’t happy with Eliot not trying to get up, or even sit in the bed.

These people _worked_ together. She tried to imagine how her coworkers would take care of her if she was in a similar situation – she was very close with all her writers and that crazy bunch when they were shooting – and she knew they would probably close her in her trailer and bring her lunch, only staying briefly for awkward talks full of uncomfortable silences.

These people, all of them, had two different minds working at the same time, one for the present situation, and one adjusted to him, monitoring his every move without pause.

Hardison’s coming interrupted her musing before she came to a conclusion; he rushed in holding his tablet, full of awful, unnatural energy – morning people were very rare in TV business.

“What? Nobody knows, or cares, what’s happening in the big world?” His grin was broad and almost catchy. Almost. “Shame on you,” he threw his jacket over the chair and pulled something from his pocket. A small package. “Orion, come here!”  The cat was ignoring him, but when he threw the entire box of ping–pong balls on the floor, Florence was sure Orion wouldn’t stop chasing them for the next two hours.

“I see you were all sleeping like babies,” he continued, grabbing the remote and turned on all six screens, with full volume.

Eliot put a pillow over his face.

Hardison switched two channels before he found what he wanted to show them, and Florence gasped when she saw A BREAKING NEWS UPDATE, in red letters over the screen.

A young woman was in front of the statue near the lake and talking into the camera: “ _Michael. R. Wright, 69, CEO of the C4 Network, was arrested this morning after police searched his home and office and found incriminating material connected with children pornography. Wright was caught in Operation Red Hood that the police ran over five months, when he uploaded data to the one of the sites that police monitored. We are now in front of the C4 building, where the police continue to collect evidence, trying to find his connections to other suspects in this case. Authorities believe that he is just one link in the giant chain_ -” Hardison lowered the volume down. “That’s enough. The things are in motion.”

“But he is not a child porn-” Florence stuttered. “You did this, you _planted_ that – I thought you were stealing information _from_ him. What- why- This isn’t collecting evidence for a case!”

“With our way of obtaining the evidence, it couldn’t be used in the court,” Nate smiled. “We needed the police to collect it themselves, without us interfering in that.  An anonymous tip wouldn’t work, and we had to draw their attention to him, and push them into action. Hardison knows all the police cyber actions, and child pornography is the one that’s immediately answered. The important part is that everything that’s in his office, all the data, documents, info and connections with other people, is now being noted and investigated. Hardison left one little back door for him, in case we need those charges rejected.”

“He ordered the murder of my friend, and tried…is trying… to kill me,” Florence stated firmly. “I don’t care if he is charged with that, or something else, as long as he pays for it.” She thought for a second. “Wait. It’s over now. That recording he wanted is now irrelevant; the police will have much more on him. He won’t try to kill me anymore.”

“You didn’t ask how it would stop the cancellation of your show.”

“Would you answer me if I asked?”

“Not yet,” he smiled. “Because the problem with drawing police attention to him with the child pornography is that they’ll search only for that kind of info in his data. They probably won’t even notice the irregularities in his reports to the board directors and his communication with reality show’s producers won’t be suspicious either. His deals with the producers, either.”

“You’re trying to say that you can bring him down, but you _can’t_ save my show?” she bit her lip and tried to look brave. “It’s okay. More than I expected – I thought no one could stop him from anything.”

“I didn’t say that. I said I can’t answer that question _yet_.”

She sighed, she just couldn’t stop herself. “Okay, I’ll wait. In meantime, he is in jail, so that means I’m free, no one will try to kill me anymore, no more mafia killers in our corridor,” she smiled while saying that, but felt strangely empty thinking she would just return to her apartment and… leave them? Right, as if she ever was a part of it, anyway – she was just a problem that they quickly solved.

Hardison pulled a bunch of papers in plastic binders out of nowhere and threw them to Nate. “Choose – there’s plenty of everything.” His grin faded a little when he saw the bomb on the table. “What the hell is that?”

“A bomb,” Parker said calmly. “I wouldn’t touch it if I was you, it can be armed again with that switch. We’re lucky it can be turned off again after you turned it on… accidentally.”

Nobody dared to ask her to explain, and the silence lasted a few seconds, interrupted only with a barely audible ‘told ya’ so’, from the bed.

“Okay, it seems I wasn’t the only one that didn’t sleep last night,” Hardison said flatly. He went to the fridge, bringing a bottle of orange juice, and in a minute he and Nate were deep in an unintelligible conversation about something technical. Parker was eyeing the bomb, Sophie listened the other two, going through the papers that Hardison had brought, and Florence had enough time to sort things out in her head.

They had removed a threat in two days and one action, and put the guilty behind bars with ease, relaxed and having fun – she would have needed more time to write it down, than they needed to act it out. Their usual jobs obviously were much nastier if this one was so easy.

Her relief was dampened only by the uncertain destiny of her show, but she put that behind her now, concentrating only on the thought that she was free, and there was no need to fear anymore.

She needed to get ready for the meeting but she had enough time and it was nice to sit here, drink coffee and enjoy the relaxed atmosphere – even though one of them still had a pillow on his head.

However, the door bell ringing ruined that atmosphere in a second; Florence could see the exact moment they all remembered that Betsy was coming. This time they didn’t even try to pretend nothing had happened. Parker’s face turned dark and cloudy, as if she held herself responsible for not obeying Betsy’s orders. Jesus, if Eliot’s tiredness from the last time triggered that wrath, what would she do now, when he was completely worn out, and his hand was wrapped up?

Strange, the only bright face in the room was Betsy’s.

She must have noticed their caution, there was no way she couldn’t, but she greeted them cheerfully, again with that tender smile that she remembered from the last time.

“He did it again, didn’t he?” she softly asked when Sophie offered her coffee.

“I’m right here, Betsy, leave them alone,” Eliot called to her before any of them could reply.

“Of course, sweetie, be there in a second,” she said gently. Hardison almost choked on his juice, and even Florence stopped her coffee half way to her mouth. She had never, ever, heard something so terrifying.

Parker looked at her with something close to adoration in her eyes.

Eliot said nothing.

Betsy waited one more moment and looked at Nate, and Florence could swear that for a second she saw a demonic glint in her eyes, before she made them all velvet again when she moved to the bed.

“Look at that poor little thing,” she cooed when Eliot looked at her with aghast eyes, sinking in the pillows as deep as he could.

“What’s wrong with y-” he had to clear his throat before he could continue.

“It’s okay, sweetie, I know, I know… sometimes shit just happens, right? It’s not your fault,” she smiled tenderly and ruffled his hair. “Let me see that hand. Does it hurt?”

Florence quickly got up and collected her bags that Parker provided, psyching herself up. “I have to prepare for the meeting... may I use the upstairs bathroom?”

Nate just nodded, obviously fascinated by Betsy creeping the shit out of Eliot, and Florence stormed past the bed with one encouraging smile to him. He looked like he needed it. The last time she saw the same look in somebody’s eyes, was when they shot Vin approaching a Claymore mine to disarm it.

She went upstairs, and closed all the doors behind her, cutting off any voices from below.

She took her time, finally completely alone, though she didn’t have time for a long bath. In the end, choosing and trying on what to wear took longer than the time she spent in the bathroom, including drying her hair.

She chose a warm brown jacket with a matching short skirt, knowing it made her hair glow like the sun, and made her brown eyes bigger. The emeralds in her ears and on her neck were brighter than her green shirt, as green as the touch of it on her eyelids. When she made her hair flow back in natural golden waves, tucked behind her ears to open her face and let it shine, she knew she was ready. Impressing her business associates was always a big part of every negotiation, and now, when she had to pretend she knew nothing, it would add confidence she didn’t feel.

Okay, maybe, but just maybe, she also wanted to show _them_ how she looked when she wasn’t a messy bag with bad hair. She started down the stairs – it took seven stairs before she admitted to herself that wasn’t them in question, it was _him_. They didn’t smile at her hair, barely suppressing a joke. Eliot did. Now he would see her hair could look just fine, thank you very much.

She waited a second before climbing down, listening.

“Look, I don’t need the damn Happy Aquarium.” Eliot’s voice sounded normal. “I don’t want any new games.”

“Why not? You fill the aquarium with fish, you breed them, they swim, you put plants and decorations in it, exchange gifts-” More importantly, Betsy’s voice sounded normal, without that creepy softness. Their storms had passed pretty quickly, and it seemed that the rest of the crew was more terrified of her than he had been.

“And stare at them, hypnotized, until my stress levels go down? Fish go left, fish go right, fish go left…” he laughed. “C’mon, give me some credit, I know what you’re doin’. Staring at fish won’t calm me down, trust me.”

Betsy sighed heavily. “Idiot. Okay, no Happy Aquarium. For now.”

That sounded safe enough, she could join them without any danger of jumping into the middle of a fight.

In the end, she had no idea if he noticed the hair or not, because at the very moment she reached the floor, she realized that she had jumped into something much worse than a fight - right into Betsy changing his bandages. He was sitting in the bed, _without a fucking shirt_ , with only some white linen across his chest, and she quickly turned her head towards the screens. “Oh, sorry. I thought you were done. I’m moving away,” she said quickly, keeping her head turned away, passing by the bed to the dining table. She didn’t even hear what Betsy answered.

She sat, not bothering to join the quiet conversation, determined to finish her coffee before they went out, and mentally going through all the important things she had to discuss in the meeting.

Yet, her fucking concentration was betraying her; she had looked directly at him only for a moment, and nevertheless, the image was in front of her eyes as clear as if she stared at him for hours – every muscle, every line of his shoulders and arms, as vivid as if she had recorded it. _The man was a fucking sculpture_. And she could tell, though she had no idea how the hell she knew that, that those muscles weren’t made in the gym – there was nothing pumped up and artificial in them, they were made by using them.

Fuck, she wasn’t… okay. She was, _maybe_ , a little attracted to him. There was something appealing in his eyes and smile, something that made people look twice. He was intriguing, and dangerous, and the strange behavior of the others when he was in question definitely added to the mystery. And that was all. She was happily married, she desperately missed her husband, and one conman, no matter how good looking he was, was just like those pretty guys in the magazines - they caught your eye, made you look twice and admire them for a moment, but after that you simply turned the page.

Florence grabbed her cup with both hands and concentrated on Hardison who was still explaining some gibberish to Nate. Out of the corner of her eyes she noticed Sophie was watching her.

She turned her head and avoided her eyes.

 

 

 

 


	12. Chapter 12

 

 

***

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Watching the first two episodes of the second season, something that was supposed to be just a way to kill time before they headed to the C4 building, ended in disaster, and Florence didn’t have even the slightest clue why, or how.

Parker was nervous. After Betsy left, she went to Eliot and barraged him about minutes and days, and all the things he wasn’t supposed to do – for a moment, between hissed words, Florence thought she mentioned something about heads in boxes, but she decided she had simply misheard – and on the top of that, Parker continued where Nate had stopped last night, and bitched at him about the bomb.

Eliot was patient with her for two entire minutes, but very soon his voice turned into a permanent deadly growl.

Hardison jumped into the fight at the very beginning, trying to stop Parker and making them both more nervous with his attempts to divert their attention, but when Eliot went nasty with his replies, he continued trying to stop him. After both tactics failed, he simply got mad and hissed at both of them, equally – of course they both turned on him in response.

Nate and Sophie were too clever to interfere, though Sophie had the pained expression of a peacemaker who knew when not to engage in already lost battles.

At some point even the mysterious George was mentioned again, Hardison pulled the ‘a punch that I owe you’ card, Eliot’s snarled sentences that were full of ‘idiots’, and Parker yelled about ‘a special angry place.’

Nate chose that point to stop it – he slammed the binders on the table – and Florence noticed he didn’t try to talk to them first.

“Guys,” he said tiredly. “Enough of this shit already. If you want to fight, wait until we leave.”

“You’re not leaving for two hours, and we are mad _now_ ,” Parker stated logically, causing a few exasperated sighs. “What?!”

“I said, enough! Hardison, start the second season – all of you – on the sofa, watch it. Eliot, you don’t have to if you can’t-”

Eliot was up before he finished his sentence, and Florence took a few seconds to admire Nate’s tactics. It seemed that when mad, even conmen weren’t immune to reverse psychology.

Eliot went to the sofa and took its right end, and Florence suddenly realized she would be forced to watch it with three pissed off individuals who would continue to fight over her head. _Or over her dead body_. She looked helplessly at Sophie and Nate, and Sophie sighed.

“Nate, bring chairs, we’ll all take some time to relax. It’s not like we’re in a hurry, we have more than two hours,” Sophie said joining them. Florence was very happy that she managed to catch the outermost left corner, leaving the middle of the sofa for Hardison and Parker – but they both refused to sit by Eliot.

It seemed that Parker didn’t want to sit near Hardison either, she changed places twice, and finally got up, grabbed her by her shoulders and lifted her on her feet. Florence could only gasp – her grasp was like steel, and her fingers dug into her flesh like hooks, without any effort. Parker just moved her and placed her by Eliot, and repeated the same procedure with Sophie who ended up pressed between Parker and Hardison.

The sofa wasn’t that big, and five people on it… this promised to be even more weird than watching the first copy of an episode while sitting on a stack of pizza boxes. Pizza boxes didn’t growl lowly from her right side, nor radiate manic energy from her left.

Eliot turned a little to look at the sitting arrangements, but when his eyes went over her face, he visibly flinched and frowned. Well, the twitching and grimace _wasn’t_ exactly what she expected when she got her hair done.

“Parker,” Eliot said, in a warning, low voice. His eyes were still on her face and Florence thought of a casual remark about that discrepancy, but thought better of it and just sat very still.

“Yes?” Parker sang from her left.

“Give them back.”

One hand stretched from the left, with an open palm – and her emerald earrings in it. Florence reached up to her ear; she couldn’t believe that Parker had lifted her earrings without her noticing it. “I have trouble putting them on, the catches are very small. How did you-” She bit her lip and put them in her pocket. Parker just smiled at her, and frowned at Eliot who sighed and turned away.

Nate put his chair to the side of the table so he could see them all, and the screens; Orion happily walked over all five of them, choosing Hardison for his bed, and the first episode of the second season began.

“The main theme of the second season is Family,” Florence said carefully, moving her earrings from the left to the right pocket, just in case.

Parker snorted in disdain. Hardison sneezed. Eliot crossed his arms and scowled.

She decided to keep her mouth shut.

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***

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Sophie was definitely right, Eliot decided when it took only one smirk to piss Parker off and set her on the lunatic ride, and when Hardison gave up on calming them down after only one minute. The hacker didn’t even try the kicked puppy eyes on Parker, and that was alarming, as if he _wanted_ to argue about nothing.

Their usual fights were short and fiery, and they burned out after a few replies, yet this one… when he decided to push them a little to see how they’d react, he forgot to think about how to pull them back, how to stop it, and all the shit got out of control. He also forgot that he wasn’t playing with a full deck as well, and it took much less than he thought for him to become angry too. Sometimes he thought that keeping one calm place in his mind was easier in the middle of morphine hallucinations, than with those two.

Was he really so self absorbed that he didn’t notice something was wrong with all of them? _Well, don’t answer that_. Of course he was.

When he arrived, Hardison had that glow he radiated when the con was going well, when he had been sucked into cyber space, working hard on whatever he was working on, but he also looked tired. He had noticed that last night; the hacker rarely needed coffee to keep him awake, the orange stuff did that well. He should’ve known then that wasn’t normal, but he let it be. A mistake.

If there was something going on, and they kept it from him, heads would roll. He knew how many ways this Chilean shit could spread over them again, and involving Don Lazzara wasn’t so clever if they wanted to avoid that, but he was pretty sure Nate would tell him that. He might not be able to do anything, but he knew more about that matter than any of them. _And wasn’t it just a relaxing thought_?

He had also been observing Sophie since she arrived, but that was a dead end. The damn grifter knew how to hide everything that was bothering her very well. He noticed only that she looked tired, which was surprising indeed knowing she was up way too early for her. Yet, he knew her slip of the tongue in the bathroom wasn’t an incident, she did it on purpose, and if Sophie thought he should pay attention to Hardison’s and Parker’s behavior, that meant something.

Parker had been angry at him these past two days, okay, he could understand that. An angry Parker might unnerve Hardison too – angry Parker would even unnerve meditation stones and set them spinning in the air – but there was something… miserable… in their behavior. In normal circumstances, a good, quick fight would only made them grin evilly; now they looked bitter and hurt.

Damn it, he definitely wasn’t the right person to feel anybody’s pulse, not now, not ever. His _slight_ touch, it seemed, only successfully stopped the circulation.

He only managed to piss them off and ruin everybody’s mood, unnerve Nate and scare Florence again. He sat on the sofa, frantically thinking about how to repair the shit he’d done, starting with Parker as the closest one, but then Parker threw Florence beside him. There was no point in fixing anything with her over Florence’s head, so he as well might start with this one first. With a little luck, he would be able to fix the entire sofa, one person at a time.

He cast one sideways glance; yep, definitely scared again. She was sitting with her back stiff, not leaning against the back of the sofa, and her hands were on her knees as if she was sitting in a dentist’s waiting room. Scared, nervous and tense – and what the hell he was supposed to say to her to make it better? He could compliment her appearance, or makeup, or her hair, but she was a fucking client and that sort of conversation wasn’t meant for clients. Her hair radiated a sweet scent that distracted him, and he moved away all of the three inches that he could. He slowly lifted his right arm and put the elbow on the armrest, so he could press his forehead and stop the headache. _He could’ve been sleeping now, if he was clever_.

The first episode started with explosions and flying cars, with high pitched screeching sounds that didn’t help, and continued with the gathering of all seven, and he didn’t come up with anything to say beyond: _Gee, what a nice explosion_. Maybe he should just give up and watch in silence, ‘cause the way the things were going, he could only make everything worse.

Nate put his feet on the table and started to rock in the chair, and his eyes casually swept over the sofa. Though his eyes weren’t on him any longer than on everybody else, he knew that the bastard sensed his lack of concentration, and he suppressed urge to tap his fingers on the armrest – sarcastic comments were the last thing he needed right now.

When Nate turned back to the screens, he peeked at the others – sulking and tense, with no signs of relaxing or improving their mood. Poking at them now might prove to be a very serious mistake. Yet, it was his fault they were all miserable, and he ought to do something. He took one deep breath, and cleared his throat. Nobody paid any attention to him, they were all staring at some crying girl on the screens, though he could feel a slight shift of attention around Sophie. He couldn’t be sure, though, she was barely visible behind Florence and Hardison.

He sighed again, and shifted uncomfortably.

Sophie’s head slowly turned in his direction. _Fuck_. Was there anything he could do, think or feel, that could go unnoticed? They were worse than sharks – to draw a shark's attention, one had to bleed in the water – for them, it was enough to rearrange his feet to make himself more comfortable, and they all were looking at him like a pack of hungry velociraptors. He should run back to his bed and leave them all to calm down by themselves.

For the last time, he tried to concentrate on the screens – there was dramatic music, four of seven had thoughtful expressions, the other three looked like they were constipated and in severe trouble because of it – _yep, two of them were shirtless for no apparent reason_ – and there was some waiting for someone to say something that stretched to eternity, with the camera rotating crazily around all of them, which made his headache stronger.

This was starting to piss him off, seriously, and the sooner he said something, the better for – he reached over and lightly touched Florence’s forearm, to draw her attention.

She screamed, jumped away and landed in Hardison’s lap, followed by an outburst of music that reached the crescendo. Chris Larabee said something important. Orion hissed and jumped over Parker’s head, Nate almost fell when he lost his balance, and Sophie narrowed her eyes.

 _What the hell just happened? He just_ -

He sighed at the five aghast stares, full of fucking _accusation_.

He stared back for a second, then looked at Florence. “I wanted to ask you about your hair conditioner,” he said evenly, trying not to blink.

“What?!” Florence squeaked, freeing herself from Hardison. “What the fu - hair conditioner?! They were just deciding to fight for - we were all waiting to see – and you startle me with _hair conditioner_?!”

 _Breath in, breath out_. “Well, Nate’s bathroom doesn’t have any-”

“What’s wrong with you, really?” Parker hissed at him. “We missed their decision!”

“Excuse me, but nobody told me that today is NotCommentingOnEpisodesFuckingFriday!” he growled. “Yesterday ya’ll didn’t stop babbling for five episodes!”

“It’s not Friday!” Parker rolled her eyes.

“Babbling?” Florence choked, and he barely stopped himself from burying his face in his hand. He _knew_ he should have kept his mouth shut.

Hardison was looking at him like he just chewed off Parker2000’s left wheel and spit it into his lunch.

“Chris said, 'let’s do it',” he pointed out. “What the fuck he could say when that girl was crying, huh? As if you didn’t know that he’d say that. What’s the big deal, why can’t a guy ask about damn conditioner without all this consternation?”

“It’s Garnier,” Florence said coldly after a moment’s silence. “Avocado oil and shea butter. Happy?”

“Extremely,” he growled, “My life just stopped being meaningless, and the world is in order again. _Thank you_.” He crossed his arms and returned his gaze to the screens. So much for polite conversation that could ease the atmosphere – damn idiots. They were fucking crazy – _and don’t pretend you didn’t know that_ – and this one was catching up with them pretty damn fast. Speaking of bad influences, yep, she had to spend _more_ time with Parker and Hardison, that would surely improve her mental state. The poor woman had been _normal_ when she came.

After one huff, Florence carefully sat back, Parker stopped darting him angry stares, and Hardison started the episode again, shaking his head with a sorrowful grimace that made his blood boil.

Sophie gently shooed Nate from his chair, chasing him onto the sofa between Parker and Hardison, and took it for herself. He refused to acknowledge her lazy smile. _Damn grifter_. It was all her fault.

Fucking drama queens, all of them.

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***

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Florence spent the rest of the episode trying to decide whom to grab like Parker grabbed her, and put him or her in her spot on the sofa. Nate was out of the question, Hardison looked too heavy, Parker would bite her head off if she tried, and that left only Sophie. Somehow, she was reluctant in the beginning, and the more time that passed from Eliot’s outburst, the more stupid she would feel doing that.

She drew herself as far as she could from him, almost sticking herself to Hardison, who as a response moved closer to Nate, and it ended with Parker being pressed against the other end.

But she couldn’t stop herself from nervously biting her nail. _What the hell was wrong with her hair conditioner?_ She cursed her short locks because she couldn’t bring a whip to her nose to smell it, not that she would do that so visibly, and she tried to figure out what the man had against her hair. More importantly, why did he have to tell her that, so subtly masked with an innocent question.

Hardison’s sneezing gave her one possible answer – what if he was allergic to avocado, or shea butter? He surely sat as far from her as he could… but he wasn’t sneezing.

She definitely didn’t need a reason to feel miserable before going to the meeting, nor she should spend her time there looking at her hair to see what was wrong with it. Maybe it was simply ugly to him. She sternly decided to throw that shit out of her head and concentrate on the screens, and it worked.

The end of the first episode was good. She was always damn proud of the first and last two episodes of the season, they were very important for the audience and ratings, and the second episode that was just about to begin was maybe her favorite of all.  The drama, angst, internal conflicts, fights inside the group, betrayal and lies, and her most favorite part - one part of the group turning against the other.

It only took ten minutes before she sensed a shift in the atmosphere. _A disturbance in the Force, right at the end of Act 1_.

She enjoyed one of the most beautiful dialogues she have ever written, where Vin and Chris, in a painful, emotional and very ugly talk seemingly ditched one another and broke the group in two, tearing apart all the bonds that tied them. Both actors gave Oscar-worthy performances, showing all the turmoil and pain with every beat of their hearts. Then she noticed that Eliot wasn’t watching it at all. He stared at the coffee table, his forehead resting on his fingers.

The sofa started to tremble. Parker shifted nervously, tapping her right foot on the floor, and in only few seconds it became so fast that Sophie had to lean from her chair and tap her gently on her knee to stop it. She never would have thought that Parker could be so moved by somebody’s acting, she would bet that Hardison would be the one that would tear up a little. He looked emotional enough.

She cast a sideways glance to the left, completely ignoring the rudeness on her right and she met a stone cold, barely breathing mask, who studied the coffee table was as well, unable to rise his eyes to the screen. Hardison’s face was _ashen_.

Uh–oh.

She checked the coffee table, just in case, but there was nothing interesting going on on it.

At the moment Vin drew a gun on Chris – and damn, she admired how he had his eyes full of tears and managed not to shed them – Hardison jumped to his feet, stopping the recording.

“We should continue this later, you’re forgetting traffic jams,” his voice was flat and empty. “You should leave now if you want to get there on time.” With that he turned on his heel and went away.

“Yep, you’re probably right,” Nate said rubbing his temples, head bowed. _Looking at the coffee table._

“You’re acting stupid.” Eliot’s voice was a quiet rasp, but it worked on Hardison as if he had yelled.

“Stupid?” he hissed from behind them. “You know what? _Fuck. You_. Enjoy your episodes, I have more important things to do here!”

For a moment Florence was sure that Hardison would share the window’s destiny, judging by the way Eliot tensed like a spring. “Toughen up a bit, will ya’, asshole?” he snarled.

“No, thanks – I’ve seen the _results_ of that kind of toughing up. Leave me alone.”

Parker’s foot started that crazy dance again, and for a moment that was only thing that could be heard in the silence.

Florence had no idea what was happening, but this wasn’t, definitely, friendly bickering, and her stomach went cold. That damn episode obviously hit close to home, stirring up old quarrels, and somehow she knew that pointing out the happy end wouldn’t work to solve this.

Parker was only one who was still looking at the screens, though the recording was stopped; a close plan of Vin pointing the gun at Chris, with all the pain on his face, frozen in the moment before he pulled the trigger – and looking at her pale face and eyes glued to the screen, Florence started to understand a few very important things.

Sophie’s eyes gave her the final answers; she watched the younger three with dark shadows that hid deeply burried sorrow.

“Maybe we should take the two of them with us, Nate,” Sophie stated quietly. “I'd rather not leave them all-” She stopped when Eliot pushed away the coffee table and stood up in one quick, absolutely non-weak move. He shot a glare at her and moved away without a word.

Florence quickly checked; he wasn’t going to the windows, he went to the bed.

By the time she turned to them again, Parker was watching Nate too, waiting for his answer.

He crossed his arms and continued to look at that damn table, and the silence spread for a few moments more, before he finally almost smiled. “No,” he said. Florence could recognize the final word of the one who was making decisions. “That shit has to be solved, one way or another. We have a job to do. They have shit to solve. Simple as that. Get ready.”

That wasn’t the brightest idea, she wanted to say, but she had no words in that matter… yet if she didn’t feel that leaving three dangerous people in the same room, people that had just _fuckyou-ed_ each other and went to opposite sides, _wouldn’t_ lead to explosion, Nate and Sophie should know that even better.

Parker curled herself into her corner of the sofa, but Nate ignored Sophie’s pleading eyes, and hoisted himself up. He picked the binders off the dining table, where Hardison sat with his laptop and tablet, and just left, without a word to any of them.

Sophie and Florence had no choice but to follow him, leaving behind a room full of silence.

 

 

 


	13. Chapter 13

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Chapter 13

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***

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Nate was driving, and he and Sophie had put Florence between two of them. She caught a glimpse of the strange things in the back of the van, but she was too nervous to go there and explore ideas for her vehicles. She wasn’t sure if Nate was joking when he said they would go to dinner after the meeting, and walk in the sun. Afternoon was slowly crawling by, evening would be there before they turned back, and the dark clouds that were gathering above them were promising rain. Not exactly a good time for walking anywhere.

“This is ridiculous,” she finally said, when the silence became unbearable. “I simply can’t go tiptoeing around things. Okay, you were in serious trouble. Okay, you have unsolved issues that are complicating everything. But tell me, how am I supposed to tiptoe around something that I can’t see, and don’t know what it is?” She stared at Nate’s profile for a second. “Tell me what to avoid, and I’ll stop poking at it, and stop causing trouble. Is that too much to ask?”

“It isn’t,” he said with a grim smile, shifting gears. “I’m afraid, if all the rest of your episodes have this kind of tension, we’re in trouble.”

“Do you want me to put the motives and subplots on paper, so you can scratch out the disturbing ones, and add a Parental Guidance rating to it?” She knew she sounded bitter and too sarcastic, but she didn’t like the feeling that it was all her fau-

“It’s not your fault, Florence,” Sophie said from her right side and she almost cursed.

“Stop doing that!” She exhaled one long, nervous breath, running both her hands through her hair, remembering too late that it obviously looked awful already, and she moaned in utter frustration. These people were driving her nuts. She looked in the rear mirror – her hair looked perfect. _Great, so Eliot was intentionally ruining her mood by simply lying, insulting her hair_ \- she tried to concentrate back on the issue; these grifters didn’t need to distract her from the main theme, she was doing that all by herself. She tucked the hair behind her ears and that reminded her of something. “You’re not wearing your earbuds, are you?” That meant Nate knew this conversation would be inevitable. She calmed down in a second, put her hands in her lap, peacefully, smiled, and waited.

His irate glance showed her that he could trace her last thoughts almost perfectly. Sitting between the two of them was worse than having a screwdriver stuck in each side of her brain.

“We are, at the moment, very unstrung, all of us,” Nate said slowly. “While Eliot was at the hospital we barely slept at all, only the four of us covering the entire Massachusetts General, twenty-four hours a day. That Night was a mess of horrors, full of fear and stress. Driving, shootings, panicking, all over  town. The days that followed, when we brought him home, were just different, not any easier. That stress and fear accumulated and is still very present; our nerves are thin, and only a little reason is enough to stir up all the anxiety and bring all that shit to the surface. To bring all the _pain_ to the surface.”

She was definitely fooled – everything he recounted she saw only as tension from time to time. One more reminder not to underestimate them.

Nate sighed, keeping his eyes on the road, but when she didn’t say anything, he continued. “Eliot decided he had to solve the problem without us because that cartel shit was way out of our league,” he said. “We didn’t know that he figured out we didn’t leave town like he had told us, that we were guarding the hospital he was in. He knew he had only a few ways to make us leave, this time for real, so he…” he trailed off struggling to find the right word. “His talk to Hardison was a painful, angry, acrid speech full of insults for all of us – much worse than that one you wrote. He ditched us and quit. We knew why he did that, and Hardison got it too, but the only way to make a lie hurt someone is to make it as close to the truth as possible. That talk still stings – it was just a week ago, and none of us have recovered yet. We are… let’s say, extremely vulnerable at the moment. Pain and emotions are still simmering right under the surface, and only a small spark is enough to start a fire. As you witnessed. ”

“But that was it, right? He didn’t shoot him? Hardison ran when Vin pointed a gun-”

“No, he didn’t. I don’t think Eliot would be able to do that.” Nate darted her a calming smile. “He shot Parker.”

Jesus. Maybe they weren’t watching over him because they were worried, maybe they simply were trying to predict any sudden moves in their direction. She sighed. It wasn’t fair to think like that, and she knew it wasn’t true either.

“Why?” she whispered before Sophie could jump in with, _no, we weren’t trying to predict any sudden moves in our direction, dear_.

“She tried to stop him. He knew we would all die if she succeeded; he had to finish the job. So he removed the obstacle and cleared his way.”

“Ah,” she said with a small voice. “Anything else I should know when we watch the episodes?”

He thought for a few moments and she noticed his hands clutched the wheel harder. “If any of your heroes are severely shot, with a lot of blood, I want to see that first, before any of them take a look.”

“He would be upset? I find it a little hard to belie-”

“No, _he_ wouldn’t.”

The answer was short and she said nothing further.

It wasn’t the time to ask what Eliot had done to the two of them – he might tell her.

Half an hour later, when Nate stopped the van disturbingly close to the spot where they’d parked while breaking in, the first strike of thunder cracked the sky above them. She hoped that wasn’t an ominous sign of some sort, took a deep breath, and got out, into the gust of cold wind that lifted every single hair on her head in all directions.

 _So much for the hair conditioner_.

.

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***

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Eliot was extremely satisfied with Hardison’s recent practice of sulking in silence when in a bad mood, because it gave him more than one hour of calming himself down. And he fucking needed it, his blood was boiling. It would be nice if he knew _why_ the hell he was so pissed off at them, their stupid reactions, their beating around the bush instead of attacking the problem right at the head and solving it… okay, he just answered it, right? He knew Hardison would just bury all of it again, calm down and start to behave normally again, and all this shit would explode at the next first chance.

He couldn’t see Parker at all, she was below the sofa’s back, but right after the three of them left, she went to the kitchen and brought popcorn and stuff, probably more cereal. Her moving under their line of sight was a good clue as well, and he could expect more trouble from her than from Hardison – her anger was not as easy to calm and the passage of time usually only strengthened it.

Whatever he thought he would, could and ought to do, he had to calm himself down first. There was no point in adding fuel to an already burning fire, so this sulking time was good, after all. It gave him enough time to concentrate on his own reactions and control his short temper.

He removed two pillows from under his back, laid down and closed his eyes.

Fuck. He could meditate and drift away in spite of the loud music and cold in Ziegler’s cell, but he couldn’t concentrate in this _silence_. Even Orion was peacefully sleeping on the shelf. Calming his mind only brought all sorts of shit into his thoughts, so he quickly gave up on meditation, deciding to just lie down and rest. And wait.

Yet, waiting was torturous as well, because it only reminded him that all he had been doing these past few days was fucking _waiting_. He was forced to wait those damn walls down, and every day only seemed to add another layer of brick to them. The wall in front of him, behind his back, in every damn direction he turned and tried to go, a wall after the fucking wall. Whatever he tried he couldn’t get past them – it simply didn’t work. This was much worse than that awful feeling of being trapped in his own body back in the hospital; he broke out of that prison in three days. Now he simply _couldn’t_.

He didn’t have enough strength to force his body to do things it ought to do; he couldn’t walk more than three damn minutes without his knees buckling out of weakness; he couldn’t control his hands, his mind, his growing rage at everything, his breathi- yep, definitely… he couldn’t even calm his breathing when he wanted to, when he laid down to calm. the. fuck. down.

He slowly reached for the oxygen mask, hating himself because he still needed it.

Okay. The first attempt to relax ended in hyperventilation. _Good job_.

Time for another hour of this shit.

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.

.

***

.

 

The meeting with the writers, producers and network staff was a damn disaster. They didn’t know about Wright’s announced cancellation, and Florence tried as much as she could to keep it that way. She had only told Jensen Daniels, her co-producer, because he and his production company owned the rights for the show.

It wasn’t a pleasant surprise when he announced he had a new show with C4, some bounty hunter crap doomed to die before the third episode. She kept the smile on her face, listening to all the congratulations, wondering if that was the reason for his careful warning for her not to go into open war with Wright and C4 before they knew exactly what was going on. He had promised he would do anything to help her keep the show alive, but now his attention would be split – and his hands might be tied because of his new deal.

He also carefully avoided mentioning that the actors' contracts, signed for five years, were going to end this week, and that nobody had told them yet what would happen to their jobs. She also, and that hurt the most, noticed that none of them were asked to audition for that new pilot.

The rats were leaving the sinking ship before the fight even started. But could she blame him? Business was business, and moving on to other projects was a regular thing – yet it left a bitter taste in her mouth. Maybe it would be easier if he wasn’t so nice to everybody, so open to the fans, so reassuring that he was doing everything he could – and the fans weren’t stupid, they had been suspecting things since all the other shows on C4 got new seasons, and only the decision about M7 was postponed. With his right hand he was sleazily patting the fans’ heads, and signing the new contract with his left.

He had no idea what would happen when the news broke out and the fans figured out his role in everything… and he would face a boycott of all his future shows. Karma was a bitch, and she was more than willing to scratch his name from her future contacts, and let _her_ deal with him.

Her lips were set into a permanent thin line when she said her excuses and went directly to the office of the President, Jules Brewer. She knew he would be there today, though the Board of Directors weren’t meeting this week – he usually spent a few hours a day in the office when he wasn’t in LA. She wondered what he was thinking about the arrest of his Vice President and Head of Programming.

His secretary, Sandy, politely asked her to wait a few minutes when she arrived at his quarters, explaining that he had arranged a meeting with police due this unfortunate situation with Mr. Wright, and Florence sat in the lobby to wait, preparing all her questions.

“Good day,” a well known voice greeted her and she lifted her head, staring directly at Nate Ford, in his cheap suit, with a derisive smile that changed his face. He scratched his ear and nodded to the secretary. “Tell Mr. Brewer I’m ready.”

“Of course, Lieutenant Webster, you can come in.”

Nate repeated his move with his ear and she finally got it, sneaking her hand into her pocket to grab the earbud, staring at his back when he went into the office.

Jesus Christ, what were they up to? The unease that had followed her since they’d left the apartment now abruptly transformed into anticipation of disaster. So that was what he meant when he had said that the police would take over. _Misrepresenting, right_.

Breaking news: _TV author involved in police scam, caught red handed while her gang was working on her president. The rest of the gang found dead in gang HQ, authorities believe they shot each other. A cat survived._

She buried her face in her hands, and waited.

 

***

 

 

It seemed that the silence did nothing good for any of them, it only emphasized the turmoil felt in the room, and Eliot gave up on relaxing, keeping himself concentrated on trying not to get more nervous.

He could clearly hear the distant thunders, coming closer after every fifteen minutes, and the electricity in the air, the sign of an incoming storm, matched the indoor drama perfectly.

Hardison gave up after endlessly clicking on his laptop – his eyes were closed but he could clearly hear him getting up from the table, and taking his jacket. He left everything else, so this wasn’t going home, this was just running away from the tension. The hacker would probably end up in McRory’s with a glass of something heavy.

Eliot really envied him on that part.

With one third of the source of the tension gone, he expected the atmosphere to clear slightly, but that didn’t happen. Parker was still invisible, except for one small whip of hair sticking out of her ponytail; Hardison’s absence only added to the pressure he felt everywhere.

But, the hacker’s absence moved her – and he couldn’t say if it was a good or bad sign.

Parker’s footsteps were lighter than a falling feather, as always, but he could guess where she was without opening his eyes. She went to the table that Hardison left and stayed there for a few minutes. Just when he thought she wouldn’t return to the sofa, she moved again.

She wasn’t going to the sofa.

He didn’t feel any threat in her approaching, but just the thought of endless bitching and arguing tensed him immediately, just after he finally managed to relax a little, which completely pissed him off, ruining it even more thoroughly. With only three of Parker’s steps, the whole hour of careful relaxation went straight to the hell.

He opened one eye, checking on her with a quick glance. _No forks, no tazers, no bombs. Good_. She only had Hardison’s laptop with her.

Then he got a better look, and stopped breathing.

Parker was fucking _drunk_.

It took seven seconds before he remembered to breathe again, drawing in one sharp, shallow breath. She wasn’t going into the kitchen for cereal, she had taken Nate’s bottle; he tried to remember if it was full, and how much whiskey was left in it, but his brain was stuck in something close to panic. In five years he hadn't seen her drinking anything except a light beer or some wine, very rarely.

Jesus, Parker drunk, it was worse than Superman on an LSD trip – two chocolates made her high - she didn’t need a fork to be deadly. He barely breathed, carefully examining her bloodshot, sullen eyes, her slight swaying – and it was painful to see her so off balance, it was… so damn wrong.

Slowly, very slowly, not breaking the eye contact, he raised himself into a semi-sitting position; he was too vulnerable on his back. In case he had to move very fast, he had just bought one more second. Not making any sudden moves, he lowered the blanket a little to free his hands as much as he could.

He didn’t have an earbud and he was sure Hardison didn’t have his either, and he regretted it deeply. If ever in his life, a panicked call for help would be justified _now_. He didn’t dare to glance at his phone that was on the table _– never let the opponent guess your next move –_ and he just remained completely still, waiting.

Her eyes were unreadable. He couldn’t read her silence.

He quickly calculated a few possible moves - if she tried to smash the laptop on his head, he had three ways of avoiding that without hurting her, and five with a hit and twist combination.

She came one more step closer and carefully lowered herself on the bed, pushing the laptop in front of him. He _didn’t_ flinch, he was just rearranging his position.

One of the surveillance cameras on the laptop showed Hardison sitting on the floor in the corridor, just a few meters from their door. _Idiot._

His first impulse was to curse and jump up, but then he remembered the threat from the mobster killers had been removed with Wright’s fall, so Hardison’s move wasn’t _that_ stupid and reckless.

He looked at the image for a few more seconds, to show her he obediently followed her moves and that there wasn’t any need to get violent, and tried to think about how to deal with _this_ threat.

Well, that _threat_ put away the laptop, curled herself on his left side, and _hugged_ him.

He couldn’t help it, for a moment he had a disturbingly vivid image of Parker with a crazy grin, his jugular hanging from her mouth, but he quickly shook that off. He expected a quick, clumsy hug; she was capable of giving those sometimes, rarely, but she stayed immobile, burying her face in his neck. So he sighed and hugged her back. With his left arm around her back he _did_ have better control of her eventual change of mind.

“It doesn’t work,” she said, slightly slurring. “It helps Nate, right? I have to ask him how and what this does exactly to help. I’m dizzy and my knees are weird. And words are coming out different.”

He wanted to solve the shit he caused, and it looked like he would have a chance. _Be careful what you wish for_ , he reminded himself morosely.

“How much whiskey was in that bottle, Parker?”

She concentrated. “Don’t know. Full?”

He almost asked her how much was in it now, but what was the point? He just sighed and held her close, hoping she would fall asleep and spare them all the trouble for the next few hours.

She was silent for two minutes, but he knew there would be no sleeping, she was tense and stiff as a spring. When she finally lifted her head a little, so she could see him, her eyes were narrowed, concentrated.

“I still don’t get why shooting you to stop you would be wrong,” she finally whispered.

And for an explanation she came to the one who actually _did_ that? Well, it even made sense, in some awkward way.

“I can only tell you why it was the right thing to do in those circumstances,” he sighed. “To find out what’s _wrong_ with that, you better go to Hardison.”

“I did, we talked. He explained everything, and it sounded logical and true – but I still don’t _understand_ it. Why it’s wrong. I’m not-” she stopped and shook her head, covering her face with her hair. Hiding. “I’m not normal,” she finished shortly. “Right?”

He knew what Hardison would say, and how, and he wished he was here instead of him. Sophie would deal with this in a matter of minutes – even Nate would be a better choice than he was. But she came to him.

“No, you’re not,” he softly said.

She didn’t lift her head and he couldn’t see her face, but she moved away a little.

“You would be extremely boring if you were normal,” he continued calmly. “Can you imagine yourself without all the things that make you – you? You would be just an empty shell. Lifeless.”

She peeked at him under the veil of hair, and he almost sighed in relief – she seemed only interested, not upset. “She isn’t boring,” she stated cautiously. “And she is normal. Awfully normal, like The Normal. And she definitely isn’t _lifeless_.”

Oh fuck. Florence had been too close the past two days, not like the usual clients, and Parker had enough time to observe her and draw conclusions on that comparison… and when he tried to see Florence through Parker’s eyes for just a moment, all the differences she could find, his throat tightened. It took an immense effort of will not to let anything show on his face.

“I could be…” she continued, strangely hesitating. “... if my life wasn’t one giant mess from the beginning, I might-”

He quickly grabbed her hand and pulled her closer. “Stop it.” He couldn’t let her say _that_ – if she managed to say it out loud, all the failures, all the missed opportunities, all the lost chances for a normal life would become real. “Parker, you would die in that sort of life, trust me. You would whither, not knowing why and how, and you would never be happy.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do. Trust me.” _Jesus, Sophie, where are you?_ He kept his stare on her, not letting her eyes drift away, when a new terrifying thought got stuck in his brain. “Parker, you _do_ like Florence, right? Do you have something against-”

“I like her,” she huffed with indignation. “You know, I _am_ capable of liking people other than you morons. She is nice. Or she is very good at pretending I’m not a freak.”

“Freak, my ass – there’s no such thing as a completely normal human being, Parker.  The only difference is that many of them are more skilled at hiding it.”

“Do you want me to count all differences between her and me, between her and my life, between-”

Hell no, that would be disaster; he had to distract her as soon as possible – damn whiskey only sharpened her brain, for God’s sake… “Wait, stop it!” He grabbed her by her shoulders and shook her lightly, knowing it would spin everything around her. He was right, she kept her mouth shut for a few seconds, eyes glazed.

“You’re not different, darlin’,” he went on when she started to breathe again. “You two are the same quality diamonds, but you were shaped to fit into different necklaces.” Her eyes widened a little, interested again, and he quickly continued. “She is a brilliant cut, that reflects the most light, the most popular of all the cuts and shapes… but you’re the Navette cut. Much more difficult to make. For me, and not just for me, it’s not the material that matters…it’s the time and effort someone puts into creating it.”

“The Navette cut has fragile ends, and it’s extremely hard to cut,” she objected, frowning at him.

“Exactly,” he smiled.

“And the brilliant cut is round, not elongated like the Navette; it can be put into many neckl…” she trailed off, thinking, then nodded. “Okay, I got it.” When she looked at him again, she had a smile in her eyes. “You know, the Navette's ends might be fragile while being cut, but when finished, they are sharp points. Put in the right necklace, that protects its shape; it can be a very dangerous weapon, if necessary. It can cut through any-”

“No, Parker. Just precious, and unique. Let’s skip the ‘dangerous’ part for now, okay?”

“Okay,” she smiled then snuggled again. She giggled once, and he knew she was thinking about the diamonds, so he hid his own smile and just lay motionless, letting her be there as much as she wanted, keeping her close.

It didn’t last long, she rose again after a few minutes of quiet humming – this time didn’t improve her balance at all, for she swayed again when she tried to get up. She just gave up, leaned over and grabbed the laptop, pushing it in his face again. Hardison was still sitting with his head resting on his raised knees.

“You have to do something,” Parker said seriously. “Make him feel better.”

“We should wait for Sophie, darling. I’m not in the mood – hell, I’m definitely not the right person to talk to someone who needs calming, trust me on that. We can’t-”

She moved the laptop away and nudged him. “Go. Bring him back.”

He looked at her unhappy face – and Parker’s unhappy face was something utterly disturbing, always – and tried to remember if he was able to say no to her when her eyes looked twice as big. Yes, maybe twice, he said no when he sensed she was faking it, but there was nothing fake in her sorrow right now. She needed her world in order, and she wasn’t good at dealing with changes. So he decided he would listen to her last demand, to bring Hardison back – that he could do. Making him feel better could wait for Sophie.

“Why don’t you go?” he asked her.

“Not normal, remember?” she smiled wryly. “The last time I tried motivational speech, he got more scared. I don’t do _people_.”

“You just _did_ people,” he raised his little finger. She almost smiled.

“Well, I wish I tried that the last time, instead of taking the gun first,” she said. Damn, what did he have to do to stop that shit about shooting each other… it would continue to trouble her until she figured out what was wrong and what was right in that – maybe never.

“You’ll figure it out,” he said gently. “Two times I saw you with a gun, Parker – once in the warehouse at the very beginning, and second time a few days ago. Can you tell me a difference between those two times?”

She tilted her head, suddenly alert. “Why? I don’t know… it was the same, I was pissed off and scared, I was ready to shoot… what’s the difference?”

He leaned a little closer, and she followed, still confused, with upset eyes.

“The first time, darlin’, it was because of money,” he whispered. “The second time, it was because of people.”

The lights in the room blinked for a moment, accompanied by a loud clap of thunder somewhere close, but he could still see her smile, which flashed brighter than any lightning.

.

.

 


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter 14

 

***

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.

.

 

When Parker ran into the bathroom, Eliot’s first thought was to go to the corridor and drag Hardison in without a word, but he abandoned that tactic knowing the hacker would bitch, argue, kick and scream, and be of no use for Parker. If he was able to drag anybody anywhere at all… maybe it would be better for his mental health not to check that. He paced in front of the bathroom, not knowing if he should go in or not – the sounds of vomiting were unmistakable, and he knew no woman who would be glad to have a witness to that. Though, it was Parker. Drunk Parker.

While he was waiting, he might as well go get that idiot in; much to his surprise, he was calm and peaceful… so fucking peaceful that even Orion rubbed at his leg and purred. The beast was obviously planning another attack on George.

He had to keep himself in this state, to remain completely calm; again, he was the worst person for this sort of shit, dammit. He forbid himself to growl, to get unnerved, angry, pissed off, and especially to slam Hardison’s head into the wall, for whatever reason. Just when he counted everything he had to forbid himself from doing, he realized he could write him a text message as well. It wasn’t _him_.

Though his peacefulness was in full force, his patience was nonexistent, and if Hardison tried any childish shit, he just knew he wouldn’t be able to restrain himself from reacting. He walked around aimlessly for one more minute, until he started to remind himself of a wind-up toy with a broken string; one more minute and he would start stuttering.

What the fuck could he use to get Hardison into the apartment, without further arguing? He used the diamonds as a distraction for Parker, what he could use on Hardison? He knew shit about his geeky things, fairies and gnomes, and all that space crap. Maybe to tell him that his laptop was acting strange because of the thunderstorm? He doubted the hacker didn’t have every kind of protection on that thing.

 _Okay, Google will help_.

He went to his bed, where his laptop was still on the table, and for a moment just looked at the ducks placed by the pond with flowers… he even put a turtle near them to keep them company. For much longer than one moment he couldn’t believe what creepy shit his life had turned into; Jesus, when in doubt, his first thought was _Google_. Maybe Hardison was right, maybe aliens _had_ replaced him in that hospital, he definitely had no idea what his brain was doing most of the time.

He just sighed, typed into the laptop, listening to the sounds from bathroom, and scanned through the results. Orion followed him and sat innocently on the bed, licking his paw, eyeing George. He glared at the cat. The cat blinked lazily.

“Parker, are you okay? I’m going to get Hardison.”

“Go,” she mumbled. “I’m ‘kay… I’ll come out soon.”

She did sound better, without slurring, but he took the bottle from the sofa with him, just in case. Almost half of the whiskey was missing, and he had no idea how she was able to stand at all, not to mention talk. If his luck held, he would manage to get Hardison drunk too, and all of them would get peace and quiet for the rest of the day.

He remembered, at the last moment, to erase the smirk that the thought brought to his face, went into expressionless mode, and opened the door.

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. 

***

.

 

Florence could hear Nate and Jules Brewer exchanging pleasantries through her earbud, but she quickly stood up and turned her back to the secretary that was looking at her. “Sophie, you there?” she whispered. “What is he doing-”

“I’m in Lucille, we decided there’s no need for two police investigators, and it’s better to have someone who has not been introduced to anybody yet, in case we need a new face later.” Sophie’s voice was quiet and light, and Florence bit her lip, remembering that Nate was listening to them as well, and that their conversation might disturb his concentration. She was, however, sure that they were all used to more voices in their heads at the same time.

“Okay,” she whispered back. “I’ll be quiet.”

She turned around, knowing that the secretary heard her murmuring, and she quickly pulled her phone and started pressing random numbers, as if she was cursing the damn thing for not working.

Right on time, Nate went straight to business.

“Mr. Brewer, there are a few suspicious activities apart from your employee being accused of a child pornography, that we have to discuss here, and it’s connected to all of C4.”

Florence gasped and went to the window. “Nate, Jules is an okay man, he is fair to all the employees – his only mistake is a lack of control over his vice presidents,” she whispered. “He is _nice_.”

“What do you mean?” Jules said calmly.

“I can assure you, C4 is not in any way connected with his _pornographic_ activities, and we understand the negative publicity you want to elude.” Nate made a significant pause. “Yet, there is something that alerted our White Collar Crimes Unit, that might be connected to C4.”

Florence could almost hear Jules’s gasp. That was the news dreaded in every business circle.

“Our usual practice is to call you to informally talk to the Central Police station,” Nate went on. “I understand that members of your Board are here too, right?”

“No, they are not all in town– we planned to have conference call later in the evening to discuss this situation. Lieutenant Webster, that would be extremely-”

“But I do understand how it would look on TV when the press finds out,” Nate cut him off with a pleasant smile in his voice. “We are not unreasonable, Mr. Brewer. Even the Massachusetts state police have Sensitivity and Public Relations courses, we are improving in every field. We avoid public humiliation as much as we can.”

“Are you trying to say that we have something to be humiliated by?”

“You will have to tell me that. Let’s put aside the child pornography accusations. Here I have documents and contracts that caught the eye of our investigators, though it’s not connected, apparently, with the main accusations.” The sound was so perfect that Florence could almost see Nate pulling papers out of the binders. “We found these documents on the suspect’s computer. Can you tell me what this is?”

“This is a part of the contract with the LiveSurvival producers; Michael was negotiating with them and set the preliminary deal. They will soon become a part of our family here on the network. There’s nothing suspicious-” The rest of his words were lost in a sudden burst of static just when she was thinking how good the connection was – the thunder was messing with the transmission. It lasted only a few seconds, and she could hear Nate speaking as a response to Jules.

“But when we add _these_ pages to it, the pages we found not on the computer but in the suspect’s safe, the combination makes a completely different picture. Pay attention to the last clauses. Michael Winslow acquired ownership rights of the show he was pushing into programming on his network. So, is that something normal in the TV business, or we should start digging deeper? If there is a possibility that ‘ownership rights’ is just some code for another link in the chain of child pornography, we have to start immediately.”

“Wait, wait…” Florence listened breathlessly; Jules’ voice was upset.

“Sure, take a good look.” Nate confirmed that he was scanning the documents to see all the clauses written in small letters.

“No, I’m sure this had nothing to do with any pornography,” Jules said after two minutes. “This is, however, a very serious violation of our house policies.”

“Oh? How? A simple bribe or something more serious?”

“It’s unheard of, Lieutenant. There’s nothing simple in this particular bribe. I built this house on the right basis, and we are doing business without any spots on our careers.”

“It seems to me that you’re more upset with his dishonesty in business, than with his main accusation.”

“I am. The child pornography is too unreal to even think of it and I’ll wait to see if accusation will be charged… but this, this… this is internal, and very close to home. Is there more of it?”

“Bank account the Cayman Islands – we traced the numbers and found out that three reality shows he was pushing into programming paid a significant amount of money. I can’t show you those, it’s a part of the evidence that’s confidential for now. We are still trying to find if that is connected to his other charges.”

“I understand.” Jules’ voice was quieter now and Florence sighed, feeling almost sorry for him.

“We also suspect that this recording, in which he mentions ‘shows’ and ‘money for them’”– Florence heard her own recording of Winslow and Knudsen from the set as Nate played it for Jules – “is just a cover up and code for eventual child abuse, or even something worse, maybe organized trafficking. Now that you know he was taking a bribe, can you tell me does this look as if he was talking about that, or it was something in cipher, more ominous?”

“It surely sounds like a confirmation of his deals, nothing more,” Jules murmured, tapping his fingers on the table; when Florence heard that sound she knew the amount of rage he was going through, she had seen it before.

There was the sound of a chair being pulled, and Nate’s voice changed, as if he was leaning back in a relaxed manner. “Can you help me and clarify a few things for me, Mr. Brewer?” His voice was pleasant and professional. “I would like to close this line of investigation so I don’t have to bother you anymore. Those three shows… they paid him to be put on the air, but they seem good and successful. Why did they have to pay to assure the deal? He did something else with your programming schedule, right? I don’t envy you. You’ll probably have to go through his every deal, every decision, thoroughly, and pay attention to every move that seems even a little unusual.”

“Well, I can think of few of his decisions that were doubtful, but I let it be his way because I was sure he was doing it in the best interest of the company.”

“Ah, I see… to make room to air the three new shows, some of the old ones had to go, right?”

“Precisely. Decisions like that are never easy, but now that it seems he made up everything he told us, we’ll have to reconsider everything he has done… how long do you suspect he’s been doing that?”

“I can’t be sure yet, we’re still collecting the evidence, but at least six months. If you didn’t suspect anything, that means he did it very thoroughly and convincingly, maybe for an entire season.”

“He _was_ convincing. And you’re right, preparing the field for this kind of scam on a respectful network _is_ something you do slowly, step by step, and for a long time,” Jules sighed heavily. “In fact, I have the author of one of those shows that was the first to get canceled, she’s waiting for an appointment. I’ll have to cancel that, I can’t talk to her right now, not before we see what’s going on.” He paused one second, and Florence could hear a click on the secretary’s table. “Sandy, tell Miss McCoy that I’ll be busy with police the whole day, and I’ll call her later, okay?”

“Yes, Mr. Brewer,” Sandy said and Florence could hear her in the room, and in her earbud; a very confusing experience.

Sandy repeated his words and Florence just nodded and left – she missed a few important sentences that Nate and Jules exchanged while she was listening to Sandy.

How did they manage to hear every simultaneous thing that was going on?

She hurried to Lucille, parked one street down from the C4 building, still unable to completely comprehend that it was _possible_ , and unable to erase the grin on her face. If Jules really went through all Winslow’s decisions, now that he'd been pushed in the right direction, he might reconsider the cancellation and simply decide they would let it live. Just like that. Jesus, it was too much, she didn’t know if she should start to hope, or calm her expectations down. She only knew she had an unbearable urge to bounce all the way to the van.

That urge faded when the first heavy drops hit her, and in only a few steps the sky just broke in half, pouring water in rivers. Her hair transformed into sticky, overcooked spaghetti noodles that stuck to her face like glue, and she crawled into the van, completely soaked, and cursing like a sailor.

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***

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Eliot was ready to be faced with yet another wall in the form of a stubborn, sulking, childish hacker, but when Hardison raised his head and looked at him from his place on the floor, something very close to relief went over the hacker’s face.

“Say something,” Hardison said cautiously.

“What? Why?”

“No growling, good. I wasn’t looking forward to calming you down, knowing how much you enjoy being in a permanent state of pissed off. Man, you took the art of pissitivity to an entirely new level. You nurture the damn thing and cultivate it, adding new variables-”

He growled. He simply couldn’t help it, it was an instinctive reaction when Hardison’s speech sped up, becoming a fast forward mess of irritating blah blahs. _Don’t smash his head into the wall, Spencer._

“See? I knew it,” Hardison went on. “You were just pretending to be calm, to lure me into your liar again, but I’m too experienced to fall for those tricks of yours, no man, this one’s not gonna fall for-”

Hardison continued on inertia, and Eliot watched his mouth moving, muting the sound completely.  The man must have had some disorder in language center of his brain. _Yeah, his shit filter broke_. Maybe the slight impact of his head with the wall would actually _improve_ … nope, the way his luck was going lately, it would only make him more eloquent.

But, something was different in Hardison’s way of uncontrollably pouring that shit out; _damn you Sophie, why did she have to put that in his brain?_ Yesterday he wouldn’t have noticed, he wouldn’t have paid attention, but now he clearly saw that Hardison was only reciting his words, without thinking, without any fire in them. Just like he wasn’t listening to him, really, the hacker also wasn’t in his speech.

He should just tell him to shut the fuck up, and get into the apartment, but he stayed, watching him.

Hardison stopped talking.

“You're gonna just stay there and glare at me?” Hardison asked after ten seconds of silence.

“Nope,” he sighed. He knew he would regret this, he just knew it – but he went two steps closer and slowly sat on the floor two steps away from him. The damn idiot was still pale, and his eyes were bloodshot. He pushed the bottle into his hands and crossed his arms, trying to soften the glare, without any success.

“You were drinking? Betsy would-”

“Nope, Parker. She’s throwing up in the bathroom.”

He saw his hesitation and struggle in one glance at the apartment, then at him, then to apartment again, then back to him; his urge to run to Parker was almost overwhelmed by… shit, Hardison _wanted_ to talk to him.

 _No, no, no,_ not two confidential conversations in less than an hour, he couldn’t handle that. Damn these sensitive people and their need to share their damn feelings… He gritted his teeth and smiled. Whatever was troubling Hardison had roots in That Night, or more simply, it was something that he had done. He could at least listen to him, if not entirely able to help.

But, first of all, a few minor things, that might mess up their work – they could slowly move on to the heavier subjects. “Why aren’t you sleeping?”

Hardison gasped. “What did Sophie tell you?” He sounded upset, so maybe that wasn’t just an introduction to a serious talk, and he accidentally pressed the wrong button. Or the right one.

“Nothing. You drink coffee, and you've been tired for days now. I guess you’re not playing those stupid gam-”

“How’re your pumpkins coming, Eliot?”

Fuck. He squinted under Hardison’s smile, pretending not to notice how quickly it faded from his face. Damn, the kid _was_ troubled. This time removing the glare wasn’t so hard.

“What’s going on?” he sighed.

“Naah,” Hardison gulped the whiskey and avoided his eyes.

He waited. He could do the two-idiots-sitting-on-the-floor-in-silence for hours, and he knew Hardison wouldn’t be able to endure that silence even two minutes.

It took only forty-five seconds to break him. When Hardison finally spoke, it was a hesitating whisper. “I have nightmares about the van, when we were parked in the park around Estrella.”

“So, taking you to Estrella for dinner is out of question then?” he said. “I’ve heard great things about that restaurant-” he shut up when Hardison shot him a nasty stare. Okay, no joking. _For now_. “What, exactly? There’s an entire set of potential nightmare plots in there.”

“The moment when we watched you preparing to kill Villacorta and get yourself killed, knowing we were too far away to stop you, at the same time watching the Mexicans surrounding us all. Those… those seconds are constantly repeating, that fear, the horror… it drags on endlessly, and there’s no relief, just that awful dreadful panic that grows and grows until I wake up jumping,” Hardison stopped, swallowed and went on. “And a few other things.”

“No happy endings?” he asked lightly.

“Nope.”

“Cool.” He gave him the bottle again and Hardison took a long sip, like he was drinking water.

“Cool?” The hacker cast him a sideways glance. “What about: it will stop, don’t worry, or do this or that and it will stop, or-”

“It will ease, eventually, with time. Or stop completely when you sort it out in your head. No one can tell.” He took the bottle and stretched his legs, resting his head on the wall. “There’s only one way to stop a particular nightmare, but I wouldn’t suggest it,” he added after some time.

“Drinking?”

“No. Replacing it with a worse one.” He felt his eyes on him, and his silence after that made him sigh. Well, he asked for it. He knew this wouldn’t be a one way conversation when he decided to sit, and he was aware that he would have to… ah, damn.

“Sometimes, it’s like surfing through different channels,” he said quietly. “The program stops, and you say: ah, this one…and then you wait ‘til it goes through ‘til the end. That night gave me a few more channels to choose from. New actors in new roles. Right now, I’m having an audition – all of that in one long, constant flow, without cuts. It’s all too fresh. With time, only the few worst moments will remain. I have finalists already. I have the one that wakes me up every time, the only one, and sometimes it takes minutes before I stop wishing I was dead, or thinking about taking a gun and blowing my brai-”  _Fuck_. He stopped, returning the bottle to Hardison, not liking the sudden thought about finishing it to the bottom. “Figuratively speaking, of course,” he added.

The hacker withdrew from him to the other wall and sat almost facing him now – his eyes were clouded and shut, and one muscle in his jaw was tilting.

“Don’t. I’ll deal with it, it’s just a few seconds of disorientation. Just… don’t.”

Hardison opened his mouth to speak, but shut it with a sound almost like a snap. It was clear he had shifted his mind with effort – but at least he had knocked it off.

The silence spread for an eternity while they stared at each other.

“Passing out, instead of sleeping, stops it?” Hardison finally asked.

Damn, they knew him too well. “Nope. Just pushes it to the end, instead of a whole night of that shit, over and over again in a loop, waking up every ten minutes in-” He took one deep breath, chasing the feeling away. “When I pass out, that shit only wakes me up once,” he explained. “Want to try that?”

“Maybe I should try drinking first,” Hardison said lightly.

“Doesn’t work. You only feel sick during the nightmare, and everything spins.”

“Okay, I’ll think of something,” Hardison murmured and started to study picture that hung on the wall above his head. Eliot felt conflicting emotions running through Hardison, but the younger man gave him a hint of a smile that he found deeply frustrating. Part of him understood exactly why Hardison was thinking of avoiding the rest of the talk, and he even thought about letting him duck and run away. For a two seconds.

“Spit it out,” he said almost gently.

Hardison sighed and shook his head. “Those few other things that I mentioned before…” he took a deep breath before he continued. “I tried to stop Nate going into Estrella, to get you out. It seemed pointless. I told him we can’t lose you both.” His eyes drifted from his – he had nowhere to look, so he finally settled on his hands. “It was just a few seconds in reality – but at night, I managed to stop him, he stayed, and we watched you killing him on the recording, and getting killed… and it lasted long enough to realize that he could get you out in time if I didn’t stop him.”

The hacker’s head was bowed, and Eliot quickly hid his smile, hoping he wouldn’t raise his eyes to him and see – damn, Hardison flinched and looked at him with an aghast stare.

“You’re fucking laughing?!”

“No, it’s just…” he managed to erase the smile, but barely. “A simple nightmare is not good enough for you… you made an extended edition and director’s cut?”

“Have you heard what I did?” Hardison didn’t look amused by his smiling. “I _did_ try to stop him from getting you out!”

“And I’m quite impressed by that. Couldn’t believe you would do the right thing in that panic.”

“What?!”

Now he completely erased his smile – Hardison wasn’t able to look at it from the light side, he had no experience with that sort of horror. “It _was_ the right thing to do,” he repeated slowly. “Your point of view is still slightly romantic – you think you _shouldn’t_ do it – but the truth is, your assessment of the situation, in that moment, was way better than Nate’s. I would do the same.”

Hardison raised one eyebrow.

“Okay, I would _think_ the same thing, knowing it was the right call, but I would go in there nevertheless – just because I’m crazy, and that’s my job. Don’t try to think like a hitter. What I’m really trying to say, is that I am impressed with your decision. It’s comforting to know you’re able to think that way,” he blinked innocently. “You must have some Vulcan blood in you.”

“Nice try.”

“What? It was _logical_. The needs of many…”

Hardison vented an exasperated sigh. “You googled Star Trek quotes right before you came out here, didn't you?”

“Well… yes,” he squinted.

“I knew that allowing you to go online will end in disaster.”

“Now you’re simply being rude. Give back that bottle.” He swirled the drink, watching the light in the amber liquid, buying time. It was expected for Hardison to feel guilty about every damn step he took, and he didn’t know how to make him stop. He didn’t know if he did _want_ him to stop; his innocence was a rare gift. He was paying for it with nightmares, but his horrors would fade when he processed all this. He would heal. “Your nightmares are your fears, and a bunch of what ifs, spiced with guilt,” he said slowly. “They will pass. Don’t worry. You didn’t _do_ anything that would torture you for a long time. Only deeds count, and you’re safe.”

“You don’t have what ifs?” Hardison hesitated. “You have only… deeds?”

Now it was his turn to look at his hands. “The one that wakes me up is the only one that didn’t actually happen. Which is a strange thing, when you think about it, considering everything that I’ve _done_.” He fell silent for a moment, feeling an invisible fist closing around his heart – breathing became difficult for a second. “When I told you I don’t regret shooting Parker, I wasn’t lying to you. But I wasn’t lying when I told you I was paying for that, either.” He held a hand up to forestall his words, and Hardison shut his mouth, letting him continue. “I had a panic attack and hallucinations from the overdose during one of the shootings. One Irishman transformed into Nate… it was freaking real. He told me you were late, that the surgeons couldn’t save her. That I killed her. It lasted only a few seconds, I recognized the gun the Irishman was carrying – but at night, it isn’t a hallucination, it’s fucking reality… and it doesn’t have a happy end. She’s dead, over and over again, and I killed her.”

“Shit, man, that’s brutal.” Hardison was watching him with a strange mixture in his eyes, and he searched for the signs. No pity, just understanding… and it was shame. He could fight pity, and knock it down, but the understanding was making him growl.

“Notice a pattern there?” Hardison continued. “We both dream about causing someone else’s death.”

“That’s because the others became more important than ourselves. Nate’s bits of wisdom.”

“He’s right, what’s wrong with that?”

“He said that’ll kill us all. And he _is_ right about that, too. Apparently, I have to work on it.”

It was really a strange coincidence that they touched that subject only ten seconds before they found themselves on the wrong end of four guns with silencers.

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***

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“Good day.” The first one politely said.

One of them was the guy that had held a knife to Sophie’s neck, the other three were unknown – but they were damn good. Eliot didn’t hear one sound of their approaching, they climbed up the stairs like ghosts and just materialized in the corridor.

All four of them stopped more than three meters from them, which wasn’t important at all – he was still sitting, and simply getting up would take at least three seconds.

Hardison immediately took over, raising both his hands into the air, forcing them to look at him when he flailed around. “I guess they didn’t get the memo… that recording is irrelevant now.” The hacker glanced at him and went ashen, but he still managed to keep only surprise on his face.

Eliot just smiled.

Fucking professionals. They slowly spread out, keeping the distance from them, without a word.

The moment he was on his feet – and he knew they would allow them to get up – he had exactly four sequences of moves that would keep their guns away from Hardison; one of them included knocking him down as well, to remove him from their fire.

The only problem with all those scenarios was that he would be dead when he finished with the last one. With Hardison alive, and Parker out of their reach, that was a good outcome, knowing the odds were so poor that they were almost incalculable.

But their last words were still stinging in his brain – _damn you, Nate, you and your logic and reason_ – and he knew, now more than ever, how right Nate really was. He wouldn’t hesitate a second. But Nate had told him that a hitter who didn’t protect himself first is of no use to anybody, and this fuck up was a good example – they would be left without a hitter right in the middle of this job.

For a heartbeat he thought he wouldn’t be able to stop, all his instincts were screaming to attack now, every second was giving them further advantage – but he managed to slowly exhale all the turmoil and rage. There weren’t just four of them – he had to think about all the rest that the team might face after those four. _Getting killed while saving Hardison and Parker meant there would be no one who would stop the next attacks._

“Get up.” The second words that one of them said were calm, without any tension.

Hardison was on his feet in a second, and he made a show of carefully helping him get up, with a worried huff, attentively staying close. The hacker knew it was better to seem weaker than he was.

Wait and watch, he reminded himself again – after all, if necessary, he could start at any time, no matter their change of position. _But they needed him alive_.

Hardison correctly read his invisible grasp on his hand while helping him up, and he turned to the one that spoke, spreading his arms in a peaceful manner, and with a fucking _smile_.

“So…” his smile grew smug when he flashed his teeth. “Parley?”

 


	15. Chapter 15

Chapter 15

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***

 

It took more than twenty seconds before Hardison realized he should’ve been scared because of the four guns pointed at them, in the hands of real killers, and _not_ because of Eliot’s smile. Yet, killers had been a common thing around them lately, like blackbirds, for example, and he had rarely seen this particular smile of Eliot’s. The last time had been when the hitter was five seconds from killing Villacorta in a certain suicide attempt.

This time, the rattlesnake wasn’t coiled and tense, he was just smiling, but Hardison finally got it and that scared the absolute shit out of him; that smile emerged only when Eliot knew he would get killed in the fight he was about to start.

It lasted only a few seconds, which was good for his mental health, because his brain overloaded with panicked thoughts about all the possibilities of him screwing everything up if he did something stupid like jumping between Eliot and the killers. There was no need for that, thank god, he knew Eliot changed his mind when his face transformed into a different kind of smile, something akin to neutral.

Now was the time to get scared because of the killers, but somehow that opportunity passed when his throat slackened and he was able to use his voice again.

“We want the woman, and we want the USB.” The one that spoke was a disturbingly calm looking, short haired man. Mid forties but well built, dressed in a casual suit, nice shoes and _nothing_ that would tell anybody he was dangerous or a murderer. Even his eyes were nice, regular brown eyes without any sign of cruelty. Hardison momentarily called him Goon A. He waited until they both were on their feet, and he motioned with his head to the apartment. “Get in.”

Parker was in there. Eliot gave no sign he could follow, he just stared at the floor beside Goon A’s feet, so Hardison crossed his arms and spread his legs.

“No armed attacker will get into my apartment! The woman is not there, we have no USB, and we don’t know shit about it – she fled. We don’t want to get involve-” he gasped and almost fell when a vicious blow in the back sent him to his knees. One hand grabbed his head from behind and pressed a gun to his temple.

“Get in,” Goon A repeated in almost polite manner, nodding to the Goon B to lift him on his feet.

“There’s no need to get violent,” he squeaked, and this time he didn’t have to adjust his voice to do it. The man behind him pushed him into the door to unlock it, the third one keeping himself further in the back, aiming at them both, out of reach. He wasn’t skilled, but even he could tell the four knew what they were doing, and that didn’t ease his fear at all.

And shit was about to explode when they entered and when Parker got involved in the situation… his panic jumped a level when he thought that Eliot might have only postponed his attack, waiting for the moment of their temporary distraction when they entered an unknown environment.

Whatever Eliot wanted to do, they weren’t going to allow it. Hardison cursed when Goon A gave the sign to the one back in the corridor; his gun was pointed directly at Eliot’s head, ready to fire at the first move. And the bastard was behind their backs all the time, out of reach.

He was ready for anything, literally, when they all entered the apartment, but only silence welcomed them.

Parker was nowhere to be seen. His laptop was closed and he had left it working; she must have seen them on the cameras.

“Check everything. You two, to the wall, hands on the wall.”

This time Hardison obeyed immediately. Even he was able to tell where all of them were in the room, just by listening to their steps, and he knew that Eliot couldn’t do anything even if he was completely healthy. One of them stayed by the door, covering the entire room, more than ten meters away, Goon A was behind their backs and way out of reach, and two were searching bathroom and upper rooms.

Their search gave him a minute to think. They came to find and kill Florence and take the evidence, and the two of them were useless witnesses. If they didn’t find anything, they would kill them and leave. A bullet each in the back of their heads, and that was it, quick and clean. Okay, Eliot would take some of them with him, but that fact wasn’t comforting at all.

He had to give them something worth keeping them alive until Parker alerted Nate, or Eliot got the chance to do something. Any other situation was better than this one, sooner or later they would make a mistake and give Eliot a chance to deal with them _without_ killing himself in the process.

He looked at Eliot out of the corner of his eye, not turning his head to him.

“Have to give them something,” he whispered.

“Round two,” Eliot nodded.

Yep, he was right… the hitter needed a change of situation, this one was pretty much hopeless.

One of the goons returned downstairs. “One window in the upper bedroom is open, but no one could escape there, it’s a two story fall. There’s no one here.”

“Told ya so,” Hardison mumbled.

“But these bags are full of women’s clothes, and few pieces are hanging in a wardrobe upstairs.”

“Okay, you may turn around now,” Goon A said and they both slowly did what he said.

“Those are his clothes,” Hardison motioned towards Eliot, careful not to look at him. However, he _sensed_ him flinching and inwardly screamed in horror.  Eliot would kill him and blame the goons. “What?!” he snapped. “They have guns, man – it’s not the time to be shy, for god’s sake. I’m sure they are normal, modern killers, who have nothing against same sex marriage or-” he huffed in exasperation and shrugged, turning again to Goon A. “Sorry about that, he is not well… AIDS affects the brain the last and he is not in that stage yet, but the first signs are already there.”

Goon A slowly turned to the hospital bed, then looked at them again, at Eliot’s pale, worn out face with dark shadows beneath his eyes.

“You better be careful with the blood,” Hardison added morosely. “That damn virus is practically indestructible, once the blood gets on your skin, or clothes, you can wash as much as you like, but you can never be sure those little bastards ain’t gonna survive, and trust me, one is enough, I’m a living proof of-”

“Shut up,” Goon A stopped his babbling. “Here’s the deal… you tell me where the woman is, and where the recording is, and you live. Any other option is two bodies on the floor.”

Hardison tilted his head a little, as if thinking. He went through all the aliases that he had used in the past, and chose Ice Man, with his lazy, irritating self confidence, just without an accent.

“Well, that’s cool, now we’re talking business.” His voice changed and he carefully arranged his smile, knowing that no sign of fear or worry escaped. “Yes, we have what you need. But we ain’t giving you that for free. We’ll sell it to your boss, for a fair price. You know that medical bills are-”

“You’re not in a position to negotiate.”

“Because this position sucks, and not just for us. You know that leaving two people dead isn’t just that, any little detail can lead back to you at some point, and it’s always risky. Why complicate it?  You’re not the one that makes the decisions, so simply call your boss and tell him he can get what he wants for a reasonable price, without getting accused of double homicide.” Hardison put his hands into his pockets and leaned on the wall, relaxed, frantically searching for anything useful in his pockets. His earbud was on the table along with his phone, he only had his damn keys. “That’s the only way. We won’t tell you anything. I don’t trust you. If we tell you now, you wouldn’t let us live, we’re not stupid – but if we make this fiasco a simple business deal, that changes things, right?

Goon A said nothing. He looked at Eliot who was still standing and radiating complete nirvana, and then Hardison realized why they knew who was a threat, why they were so far away from them and so cautious – this one was probably the guy that held Sophie hostage. The same one that Eliot warned him about, to no underestimate him, and them, and that they would come back, next time with guns. The one that did everything _impeccably_.

Well, it seemed that guy continued that course of action. He sighed, remembering also that Eliot beat them up, and that his picture of two peaceful, sick, frightened gays wouldn’t hold water.

“We have no reason to help her,” he jumped in Goon A’s thinking. “We know her, that’s why she came to us for help. She’s nice, she even gave him a few stunt jobs while he could work, and I did some editing for her show, but man, our lives are at stake here. We _can’t_ protect her anymore.”

Goon A glanced at Eliot again when he mentioned stunt jobs, and Hardison hoped it was enough of an explanation – he knew some moves because he worked as a stuntman once, and he wasn’t anyone _really_ dangerous who did those things for a living. He hoped that was the message.

Surprisingly, Goon A turned around and looked all over the room, and then simply went to the window that was above McRory’s entrance. He peeked down, observed the buildings across the street, the walls that divided Nate’s and Florence’s apartment, then came back.

“The apartment is not for sale,” Hardison said lightly, but his stomach went even colder than it was before the inspection; he was sure that that meant something but he couldn’t nail it down. He looked at Eliot, his calm, expressionless eyes that followed Goon A. They were much darker than only minute ago. He did know.

“Okay,” Goon A said when he stood in front of them again. He smiled pleasantly. “You’re right. We’ll go and meet my boss, and you try to sell what you know. For your sake, I hope it’s worth the price.”

“How about meeting tonight, somewhere, you decide where? We need some time to-”

“You’re kidding, right?” Goon A said with honest surprise. “You’ll walk, or you’ll be dragged – your choice.”

“Oh, you mean we go _now_?” Hardison sighed. He had to try. “Okay, wait just to collect my jacket and my-” he made one step forward and all four of them switched their positions according to his move; they wouldn’t make the rookie mistake of a crossfire or obstructing their lines of sight. His only consolation was that their every move and reaction was useful for Eliot, he knew the hitter was collecting every detail. “I’ll need my phone, and he isn’t going anywhere without his oxygen mask, okay?”

He waited until he got a nod, then went to table to grab his phone. They were watching him so he took just that, the earbud was out of reach. The oxygen mask would be useful for Eliot in more ways than one – the cord was perfect for strangling people, and the tank, though it was small, could be a good source for a powerful explosion if necessary. He picked it up and went back.

A new idea formed in his mind – maybe it would be better if Eliot stayed here, to avoid any unnecessary effort. He remembered Nate mentioning that Eliot wasn’t even able to climb down the stairs to the car and he had no idea what to think about all this anymore – it was doubtful Eliot would be able to do anything after an exhausting trip down the stairs.

Hardison remembered that he had collapsed after he fought two of them, armed only with knives – it was too much for the shape he was in. Four of them with guns… no way. If he stayed and waited for Nate, he would be in a better state for anything that should be done after. He could deal with Knudsen and babble his way out, at least until they came to get him out.

He gave Eliot the mask, and worriedly tapped him on the shoulder before he turned to Goon A again. “You know, he isn’t really well and his presence is not needed. I can go with you-”

“Darling, I’m going with you.”

Hardison had no idea what was more surprising, the gentleness in Eliot’s voice, his choice of words, or that his hand that took his.

“I know you want to, but – blarghhkh,” he felt his eyes popping out when excruciating pain shot through his hand. “Okay, you can go,” he quickly squeaked. _He knew he would pay for that._

“It’s not really your choice,” Goon A pointed to the door with his left hand. Hardison noticed he didn’t motion with the gun like stupid people often did. The gun was steady in his right hand, not leaving them for a second. “Both of you go. Move.”

Hardison tried to free his hand, but it was useless, so he just sighed and slowly went along.

In the few seconds that their hands were out of sight while the goons readjusted their positions, another light squeeze from Eliot, this time on his metacarpal bones, almost made him jump.

“What the he-”

"Dammit, Hardison, just pay attention, will ya?”

Pay attention to _what_? Four ways to make his arm absolutely useless, because he was pissed off for no real reason… oh. He blinked.

If Eliot thought he would need those moves in the near future, that meant this shit was even more serious than he was afraid it was. He quickly started to pay attention. The first press was on the spot between his thumb and index finger, and this one… he wasn’t sure. It felt like Eliot’s fingers went all the way through his hand and broke out through his palm.

They were slowly climbing down the stairs, and he hoped that Eliot’s firmer grasp was just a ruse, not the real need for support, but he couldn’t be sure. They were almost down when Eliot stumbled one step and caught his forearm to stop his fall – and _that_ was just an act. His entire arm went numb when Eliot pressed one point on his ulnar nerve, three inches above his elbow. _Fuck, that shit hurt_.

Eliot used a nasty twist of his thumb to direct him to the corner, as if he wasn’t able to turn around himself, and then in another direction – Hardison secretly checked to see if his thumb was still attached to his body after that.

“You know, you could just _explain_ that,” he whispered. “I’m a huge fan of theory instead of pract- Jesus Christ!” His whisper became a strangled hiss when Eliot’s fingers jabbed into his ribs while he was helping him to straighten up after one more sway. He tried to concentrate and find the exact spot from where the pain radiated… it was right beneath his armpit.

By the time they reached the back street, he would know all the useful spots to deal with attackers, and he would be completely paralyzed, limping and waving numb, dead arms around like a stuttering zombie, unable to do anything except slobber on them. _Way to go, Eliot_.

When one of the goons poked him in the back with the gun to hurry up, he was half ready to snap, so he put more effort in controlling himself. Just nice and easy, and they would all get out of this alive.

It was fucking _raining_. The rain was whipping at them almost horizontally, carried by a cold wind, but they only had to walk fifty meters through it to get to their vehicle. They had a driver waiting for them.

They forced them to enter a van that looked like Lucille’s dark blue sister, only they kept two rows of seats, and the cargo space was completely divided from the front. Goon A took his phone, of course, before they slammed the door, but it was good that all four of them went to sit in front, leaving them securely locked in the back.

Eliot didn’t sit, he immediately laid down on the floor and closed his eyes. His breathing was quick and shallow as if he had ran ten miles, and it wasn’t good at all.

“Do you need silence to draw a map?” he asked him, remembering their forest trek, but mostly to see how he really was.

“Not now when we are in the known parts of town. Later.” His voice was weak and quiet. “Combine those moves with quick elbow hits to the head, okay?”

“Okay, enough of that shit already… I know we’re in trouble, but you’re scaring me even more, you’re acting strange. What did I miss? What’s different in this fuck up?”

His silence lasted for a few seconds, covered by the sound of the engine.

“Well, you saved our lives up there,” Eliot said with strange hesitation. “If they thought we didn’t know anything, they would kill us.”

“But?”

“You don’t get it, alright?” He sighed and lifted himself up, leaning on the wall of the van. “Hardison, they’re not taking us to a meeting with Knudsen, to negotiate. They are taking us away from the apartment, bar, people, everybody that could interrupt or hear anything.”

“You mean…” Damn, he knew that Goon A’s inspection of the apartment was strange. It obviously wasn’t soundproof enough. His stomach turned into origami.

“We’re going somewhere where they’ll be able to take the information from us and take their time. Why pay for something they can get for free?”

“I thought people do things like that only in the movies.”

Eliot just looked at him. Nope, Hardison corrected himself. Eliot _watched_ him. He tried to look calm and show confidence he didn’t feel.

“Any plans?” he whispered.

“Nope. This is my game from now on. I don’t do plans,” Eliot smiled. Hardison studied that smile, and he couldn’t tell if that was the one that scared him. Maybe, some mixture.

“That’s cool, man,” he said, smiling back.

Maybe Eliot wasn’t doing _plans_ , but he surely knew he didn’t want to see him _doing_ anything. He followed his example and closed his eyes, trying to come up with something clever, something that would prevent _that_ smile from emerging again.

This shit was deadly, he finally realized.

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***

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Parker knew she was drunk and practically useless, but she needed an enormous effort to force herself to think logically, and to erase all the things she _wanted_ to do from her mind.

When one of them hit Hardison, her first thought was to take Eliot’s sword, wait until they opened the door, and simply cut them all to pieces, but if anything, she knew her body. Her coordination was none to nonexistent, and when she just imagined the sway she needed to perform, another wave of nausea washed over her.

She turned the laptop off – that would tell them she saw everything.

She had only seconds to decide what to do, and she just acted. She grabbed one earbud from the table and hurried to the stairs. She almost reached them when she turned around and quickly ran back, taking the bomb with her.

She disappeared upstairs in the final second before the door opened and all of them came into the apartment.

She was still silent as a ghost, in spite of all that whiskey.

There was no time to search through Nate’s wardrobes for a harness and ropes so she simply opened the window and stepped right out into the pouring rain which slapped into her face. The small ledge would be enough for her at any other time, but now everything spun, the street under her feet came up in one jerky move, and her foot slipped on a wet brick.

She caught the window rim at the last moment, hanging with three fingers, calculating… and she let herself go.

Parker knew how to fall and how to make the impact as soft as she could, yet this time she remembered that she had tucked a bomb, with a fucking _switch,_ into her shirt, and rolling upon landing was out of the question. She turned over in the air, feet first, and landed with a painful stiffness that sent jolts of pain through her legs. She held in a cry, stumbled away from two shocked passersby, and literally crawled under the cover of a parked car.

She wanted to curl up to stop the pain, but she had no time for that, and her angry tears mixed with the rain on her face. Her shot leg was in agony; the wound hadn't healed yet, the damaged muscle was still weak, and she had felt it tearing apart when she landed. She had no idea if she would be able to walk.

The storm had cleared the street and nobody noticed her, and none of the parked cars that could be the intruders' – she had to get to the back street.

Limping in the pouring rain, with the street spinning around her, was one of the brightest moments of her life, she thought, counting seconds and meters, suppressing all her fears and the urge to run. Her leg couldn’t manage anything faster than this.

Back street.

Dark blue van, one man inside.

Five goons to deal with, and she was able only to slid by the wall when nausea and pain hit her in one united giant blow that darkened everything around her.

 _What if they were already dead?_ a small, terrified voice in her head cried, but she shook it away. Eliot wouldn’t let them kill Hardison, she had to believe that.

She crawled to a small yellow car parked near her, keeping herself under the line of sight of the man in the van, and got busy with the lock.

She maybe couldn’t do anything now, but Nate needed to know where they would be taken.

She hid in the car and pulled the wires, working almost blind, keeping her eyes on the van. Her damn fingers were already trembling; shock or cold, she couldn’t tell, but a spark made the engine softly roar to life. No one would hear that in this rain.

She put the bomb on the driver’s seat and pulled the earbud out from her pocket; it took three tries to place it in her ear and she laughed through the tears. Driving would be something to remember.

“N-Nate…,” her teeth clattered uncontrollably and she angrily wiped away her tears, mad because the crying was clearly felt in her shaking voice. “Nate, w-we are in trouble.”

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	16. Chapter 16

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“You know, our team is well prepared for situations like this one, and we have nothing to worry about.”

Eliot looked at Hardison when he said that in a completely convinced tone. He had spent the last fifteen minutes gathering every little bit of strength he had left, while at the same time placing them on the Boston map – he knew where they were and what part they were heading to. Hardison was surprisingly silent all that time, and then this after almost ten minutes of silence.

The hacker spent those minutes thoroughly searching the cargo space, but the bare metal walls were of no use, and not even a needle could be found on the floor. Hardison managed to find a few wires, probably to the back lights, and he tore them out, explaining that the police might stop the van with broken taillights, but it was a slim chance and they both knew it.

“Nate will think of something, we have a grifter and a thief, hell, we even have a TV writer now who will add drama and explosions,” Hardison went on.

Hardison was actually trying to lift _his_ spirits, for god’s sake. He stared at him for a few seconds, then sighed. “It’s good we have a hacker that will locate us and tell them where we are, and a hitter who we’ll send to get us out.”

“That was my next sentence,” Hardison grinned. He took off his jacket and put it over his shoulders, dangerously close to tucking him. Eliot glared at him.

“Yeah, I know. Manly, tough, no jacket needed, wet shirts are macho – but to them you’re sick, and they would notice I didn’t give you my jacket. Stop complaining about everything.”

“I haven’t said a wo-”

“Good. Now rest, get in touch with your inner feng shui and relax while you can, okay?”

“My inner _what_?! You have no idea what you just said, right? Feng shui is Chinese-”

“Here we go again,” Hardison rolled his eyes. “Glaring spends energy. Talking spends energy. I said you should rest.”

Eliot shut his mouth. Hardison was right. He sighed, closed his eyes and tried to forget he just thought that Hardison was _right_ about something.

“Eliot?” Hardison asked after ten seconds. “You okay?”

“Yeah?”

“You didn’t say anything.”

He sighed again, opened his eyes and met Hardison’s worried gaze.

“You just said I should…” Jesus, _this_ was using up his energy. Yet, it seemed that Hardison needed a distraction, anything except the steady sound of the engine roaring. “We just drove over a six lane highway,” he said. “Based on the time – only twenty minutes – regular speed and the type of the road we’re driving on, we are on the Concord Turnpike, and we just passed over Massachusetts Route 128.”

Hardison’s fingers twitched. He had no laptop, no phone, nothing he could type on and find out more, and Eliot could feel his frustration.

“So, we should start to worry when we switch onto a smaller road into some wilderness, right? Damn all those ponds around Boston.” Hardison cursed quietly, hoisting himself up, and taking a few small steps, careful not to bang his head anywhere.

“No, we should worry now,” Eliot paused, watching him, not sure if he should mention something or not. “When we were in the apartment and you grabbed your phone… did you noticed anything?”

Hardison returned the same inquiring gaze. “To notice or not to notice…something… is hard to determine. You noticed something?”

“Define something… after you define noticing.”

They both tilted their heads, thinking about what to say. Hardison sat back, resting his back on the opposite wall, facing him.

“Is that something connected to Parker?” the hacker finally asked carefully.

“So, you _did_ notice she took the bomb. Why didn’t you say that?”

“I didn’t want to disturb you. Why didn’t _you_ tell me?”

“Well…” Eliot sighed. “It _is_ a little disturbing. She’s drunk.”

“I know,” Hardison entwined his fingers and stared at them for a moment. “Nate will take care of that, as soon as she calls him. He won’t let her do anything… crazy. Trust me, there’s nothing to fear – Nate will immediately see that, and he won’t let her out of his sight. Even if Nate was busy with something, you think Sophie would take her eyes off of her? No way, man. Nothing to worry about. She is not alone.”

“Right.” Eliot just smiled. Hardison smiled back.

Eliot bit his lip, trying to decide if it was better to tell Hardison that there was a dangerous possibility that Parker followed them, and no Nate was near to control her, or if it would just add to his fear, giving nothing useful in return. By the way Hardison’s glance was carefully turned away from him while he mentioned that, it was also possible that hacker suspected the same, but didn’t want to tell _him_ , leaving him to rest in relative peace.

 _Bloody marvelous_ , he heard Sophie’s pissed off voice in his head.

They both chose different parts of the van to stare at.

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***

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Sophie’s explanation about four ways to improve her characters’ surprised reactions in an unexpected situation was both fascinating and unheard of, but Florence knew she would try it, knowing that that woman probably tried it herself in real life. They headed home and she reminded herself to write it down immediately. Nate planned to stop somewhere along the way and buy something to eat. They both were wet and the heavy rain canceled all their eventual plans for dinner.

“Of course, your guys can’t play with their hair and that’s a shame; there’s so many ways to read their messages. An angry stroke with one hand through the hair is just a ruse, forget it. That’s a clear sign of sudden vulnerability which they have to compensate for and hide- ouch!” Sophie yelped when she bumped her elbow on the door, and Florence quickly caught her seat; Nate swerved on the slippery road, Lucille was dangerously off balance for a moment. “Nate, what-”

“Slow down. Now repeat that.” Nate’s voice was deep and tense, and Florence thought he was talking to Sophie, to repeat that about revealing vulnerability, and for a moment she was very concerned about his mental state. He continued to drive for the next few seconds, and when she saw Sophie fishing for her earbud in her pocket, she realized Nate was listening to someone with his.

In the next second he simply turned the wheel and made a U turn in the middle of the wet road, among other cars, for Christ’s sake, and the screeching sound of the cars avoiding Lucille almost made her deaf. She quickly found her earbud.

“… d-don’t know where they’re taking them but they are definitely going out of town somewhere and we’re now going west, n-north west – just take that course and I’ll tell you when I’m sure where I am. I, I… I have to stop talking now, I can’t talk and drive, the road is strange… I don’t have my phone, and I think they don’t have theirs, they don’t have earbuds, they were talking when they came, and I didn’t know if they were going to k-kill them and-”

“Parker, slow down. Stop talking, just breathe. Slow down.”

“I can’t slow down, I’m following them and if I let them skip away we’ll never be able to find them ‘cause we don’t have anything to track and no one who could track them even if they have something t-that-”

“Parker, stop talking.” Nate kept the calm in his voice, though Florence could see the effort he put into relaxing his tightly clenched jaw. “Concentrate on the road, and on following, and think only about that, okay?”

“Okay,” she half whispered, half cried. “I’ll take out the earbud now, I can’t listen to you–” And then the line went silent.

“Florence,” Nate said after a few seconds of silence. “I’ll stop and let you out. You have our numbers. Go somewhere-”

“I’m staying, forget it,” she said simply. “What’s going on?”

“They took Hardison and Eliot. Five armed men in a dark blue van. Parker managed to escape unseen, she jumped onto the street. She’s hurt. And she is drunk.”

Static in their earbuds was followed by Parker's voice. “Concord Turnpike, Nate. They’re speeding up now.”

“Good, Parker. Just easy, okay? You know what to do. We’re on our way, and very soon we’ll be right behind you. Report any change.”

“Okay.”

Nobody said a word, and Florence glanced at Sophie. Her silence was strange. She just shook her head and motioned to Nate, and Florence got it; Parker didn’t need calming and soothing, she needed authority and decisions.

Then it finally dawned on her; they were taken because of her, because Eliot helped her and they knew it, and he and whoever was in the apartment with him, was their only way to find what they wanted. She stared ahead sightlessly, while guilt and fear started to race each other.

She turned a little just to frown at Sophie at the same moment Sophie opened her mouth. She closed it with a pale trace of a smile, and Florence nodded. No soothing words could ease her guilt. She, just like Parker, needed authority and decisions.

But Nate just kept driving and she didn’t dare to ask him anything, because she saw his eyes and something very dark and deadly curled deep inside them, ready to be awakened.

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***

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After next the twenty or so minutes, Eliot couldn’t be completely sure about the time, they passed under Interstate 495, and now he knew they weren’t just trying to locate some deserted road in the middle of the woods. If they wanted that, they had plenty of good spots on the route they passed. They knew exactly where they were going, and he had yet to decide if he liked it or not.

A simple, randomly chosen meadow in the woods had many advantages for someone who had five guns and lots of experience, but that was unknown territory for both parties. An exact place, probably a closed complex of some sort, gave much more chances, but that was their playground, a place they would probably know very well.

Whatever, he hoped they would get there soon. Hardison’s jacket kept in at least a little warmth, but the damp shirt was draining his body heat pretty fast, and he didn’t exactly need that on top of all the shit. Every minute of _rest_ was weakening him further, and the fear and solid worrying helped with that.

He didn’t have to explain to Hardison that this trip would end with two bullets in their heads no matter when and what they said. Though Hardison had no experience with this sort of thing, he knew enough to predict pretty much all their moves. He also had enough control to keep calm in a situation where many much tougher guys would be panicking, babbling idiots. Damn, there was no way he would let them kill him, he thought, watching the younger man who was quietly humming; he couldn’t predict what Hardison might become when he hit his full potential, but he was damn sure it would be something great.

He spent some time weighing all the pros and cons of Hardison’s eventual role in the next hours. He had kept them alive until now, and Eliot would trust him to continue doing that without thinking, if only their opponents were a little less professional. That main guy particularly. Whatever Hardison tried, grifted or lied, no matter how good and convincing it was, that guy would do the only thing that suited him. Hardison knew a lot, but he had no experience with streetwise thugs.

And that was the problem.

“Hey, Ice Man,” he called to him when he noticed the road changed, and when the sound of traffic was almost lost in the sound of falling rain. They went off the main road, and he knew they didn't have more than a few minutes before they arrived. “I have something to tell you.”

Hardison slowly raised his head, eyeing him critically. “I won’t like it?”

“Nope.”

“Would you?”

“Not exactly…no.”

“That’s bad. If you said you’d like it, it would probably be something crazy, violent, and successful.” Hardison sighed but at the last moment remembered he should smile _._ For him. That smile hit him stronger than he thought it could.

Fuck feelings, he had a job to do. “They won’t use handcuffs, and that’s a good thing,” Eliot managed to steady his voice in a neutral matter-of-fact stream. “They are too experienced to use ropes, and that leaves only duct tape, or zip ties. Zip ties would be their first choice, because duct tape can be torn apart on good surface and with a little time.”

“That’s cool. You’re saying they’ll use something we can’t-”

“We can. If your arms are in front, with enough strength you’ll be able to snap them. If they’re behind your back, it’s even easier – lean forward, lift your hands up as much as you can and thrust them down on your back, or legs if you’re kneeling. They’ll break.”

“That doesn’t sound like something you’re able to do now,” Hardison said carefully, as if he worried he would get offended.

Eliot sighed. “Nope, I can’t.” He thought about mentioning he didn’t have enough strength to lift a fucking window, but it was better if Hardison didn’t know how, exactly, weak he was. “That’s why I’m teaching you, so you can untie me, alright?”

“Yeah, sure, put more pressure on me, go on,” he grinned. “I knew I should have left you in the apartment and taken Parker instead.”

“Speaking of Parker…” Eliot hesitated, still uncertain how much of his suspicions Hardison should know. “There is…no, there was a slight possibility of her not going to Nate.”

“…but coming after us,” Hardison finished quietly. “Yes, I know. And that means we have to get out of here before she even gets close.”

“That’s the plan.” Eliot darted him a genuine smile, and Hardison, naturally, narrowed his eyes. He should growl and grumble instead… but now it was too late to change tactics.

“Okay, I see,” Hardison sighed heavily, tiredly rubbing his eyes. “You’re all soft and smiling. What is it you’re not telling me?”

“I was just getting to that part. That guy-”

“Goon A.”

“What?”

“I named him Goon A. The one that hit me is Goon B, the careful one that’s always too far away is Goon C…”

“Dammit Hardison, just listen!”

Eliot half expected bitching, a burst of explanations or nervous joking, but Hardison just nodded, with a tired half smile. Damn kid – his heart ached seeing him so calm and aware of every aspect of this shit – he didn’t deserve this quick course of instantly growing up and facing the nasty things in reality. He waited a moment until he was completely sure that his voice was controlled and confident. “That guy, Goon A, wants the USB and where to find Florence. There’s no grift you can try that will stop him, he ain’t gonna have time for that. If anything unexpected happens and they separate us, don’t try to play hero. Sooner or later you’ll tell them. It’s better to tell them sooner, trust me.”

“Stalling is on our side, it gives Nate time to get us out.”

“In this particular case, stalling will be my job, not yours, if it comes to that.”

“Look, Eliot, I’m not stupid,” Hardison said seriously. “I know what they can do to make us talk, and I prepared myself for that. I can endure that long enough. I also know that I cannot tell them everything, or nothing at all, but dose it carefully, to prolong everything and make them keep me alive as long as I’m useful.”

This time, Eliot rubbed his eyes tiredly. Hardison based his composure on heroic movies, for god’s sake. He had no idea what really… He took one long breath, only then remembering the mask. Clear oxygen helped a little, but nothing could remove the pressure in his chest, that fucking pain that grew stronger with his every word.

“The USB is not important, Florence is not important, the only important thing here is you.”

“You mean us,” Hardison hissed. “And what about Flor-”

“One shit at the time. Florence is just stage two – if we have to tell them where she is, we still have to get out of this alive, and _then_ think about the new turns in this shit. She won’t be in greater danger if you tell them everything you know about her, Nate would just adjust his actions according to that.”

The road was now full of potholes, the van was slowing at the curves. He didn’t have much time.

He left the mask on the floor, striping one band aid from his right hand and pushing it into a small hole in the carpet. Hardison watched that without a word, knowing why he was leaving his DNA in the van. Eliot slowly hoisted himself up and moved closer to him, kneeling right in front of him.

“If this isn’t a sign of more bad news, I’m an-”

“There’s two of us,” Eliot said shortly.

“What do you mean?”

“You can be brave for a while, and refuse to tell them anything, or dose your information carefully, especially when you know that Nate will find us, one way or another. But, what would you do if Goon A said he would kill me if you don’t talk?”

“Oh. Why you?”

“If you have two back doors into a computer, would you choose the one easier to hack, or the one that would occupy you longer? Because you’ll be easier to break.”

Hardison shifted under his gaze. “You mean, they’ll go after me first?”

“Yep, if they knew their job. And they know.”

“Would that work on you?” the hacker asked casually.

Eliot almost smiled. “Yeah. If they threatened you, I would tell them everything, and then they would kill us both. And there’s that other problem…”

“What?”

“My reputation would be ruined forever.”

Hardison huffed. “We can’t let that happen, can we?”

The van started to slowly slow down, and he could hear sand under the wheels.

“Do you trust me to get you out of this alive?” Eliot asked, still keeping his eyes locked on his.

“Us, damn you! To get _us_ out of this alive, that’s the only option. Yeah, I do. What do I have to do?”

“You must feign severe concussion and disorientation – try to vomit and pretend to pass out again every time they wake you up. Pass out after every move or hit. Be careful, they’ll check with a hit or stab, be prepared and don’t react. When you wake up the first time, try to pretend you’re still knocked out, and listen and remember everything. I need you to use the first chance you see, and clear out - if you’re out of the equation, I have free hands and enough room to fight.”

“Five guys with guns? Are you fucking nuts?”

“If you’re there, it’s six against me – ‘cause you’ll be used for it. Trust me. I’ll stall as much as I can, and wait for Nate, but you have to do what I’ve told you to do.”

“Hey, I’m not so easy to knock out, I can hold on much longer than you think. But, you’re the one that can’t stall. Have you thought of that, indestructible one? Have you thought, even for one second, that _you_ can’t endure hits or stabs or lasers or shit, huh?”

Damn, he felt a lump in his throat, and his voice became a weak whisper. “Not really,” he said. “I know you can hold on, Hardison,” he continued almost gently, putting his arm on his shoulder. “And I also know you would try the impossible to get us out. The problem is, a lot of damage can be done to the human body even in one minute. The things you can’t see in the movies. I know them, I’ve seen them, I... And I can’t let them even start... I can’t let them even get _close_ to you.”

Hardison cleared his throat, much paler than before, but he didn’t take his eyes away. “What are you trying to do now? Scare me more? Don’t have to, trust me, I’m-”

He squeezed his shoulder harder. “No. I’m trying to…” he trailed off, having no idea what to tell him, how to explain to him. “I’m trying to say I’m sorry,” he finished, his voice going into raspy whisper.

He smiled once more, then he turned him around and slammed his head into the wall of the van, easing his fall.

 _He would never hear the end of it_.

The van stopped.

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	17. Chapter 17

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***

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“Explain this,” Goon A motioned to Hardison who was lying still, with the mask on his face.

“He panicked,” Eliot shrugged. “I tried to tell you to stop the van – he’s claustrophobic, he had an attack and he fainted.”

“Get out.” He waited until Eliot stepped away from the van, and then two guys dragged Hardison out.

Onto the sand.

Sand was everywhere he looked. Eliot didn’t take his eyes from Goon A, but what was behind him looked just like the complex he imagined during the trip… in the middle of the woods, with a broad road, abandoned and huge, the largest buildings four stories tall. Behind the buildings were five silos, painted red, two of them leaning on each other.

He couldn’t guess what it had been before. Strange ramps near the van went inside the building through large openings; if the buildings were made of metal, it would look like hangars, but the ramps were clearly going down, into the basement level. Everything was made of old red bricks, and the windows were dark, dirty and mostly broken. He noticed in the first glance that the windows were huge, but made of many smaller panes, and he knew that type of construction – steel frames, unbreakable, and too small even for Parker to go out through the glass.

He turned around, checking the part of the complex that was behind the van. There was nothing there, just a wet meadow with a few bushes, and a couple of hundred meters away, something that looked like a sand excavation camp.  The rain distorted everything at that distance, but the piles of sand, machinery and big trucks were visible enough. So it was the activity that he saw, two trucks were moving. The five didn’t make any attempt to move from the open space, and they had driven past that excavation, so it was likely that both complexes were connected; one for some sort of business, and this one for less pleasant business deals.

That meant that he couldn’t count on just five of them in play, reinforcements were only a shout away.

And he could barely stand on his feet.

“Where is your boss?” he asked with a confused smile, but he knew it wouldn’t work even before Goon A went to check on Hardison and shook his head when he saw the bruise on his temple.

“Spare me,” Goon A simply said. “It’s raining, it’s cold, and I don’t want to be here. Do yourself a favor and tell me what I need to know, and this will be quick and painless.”

“When you say ‘this’, what exactly do you mean?”

He knew what was coming and the hit didn’t surprise him; he even knew it would be Goon B who silently circled around him while Goon A talked, and he didn’t make any attempt to strike back or stay upright. He let the blow spin him around, and fell into the muddy sand, using that spin to ease the fall. It didn’t quite work, but hell, he had to give them something expected. Curling up protected his ribs and wound, the boots hit his forearms and back a few times. The last hit got him in the head and it was a very unpleasant one, but he just counted the seconds and stayed down. They might call it softening up, and it probably was very efficient on somebody else, but the only thing that worried him right now was that Goon A might not be deceived enough. When the beating stopped he did his best to look like a senseless heap, turning onto his back.

Damn rain was tickling his face, and Hardison’s jacket was positively ruined.

“Changed your mind?” Goon A hovered above him. “This is just an introduction, you know?”

He slowly blinked a few times, as if he had problems focusing on him, checking their position. Goon C was under the tin roof, more than ten meters away, with a gun, covering them all from a distance. The fourth guy – _and no way was he calling him Goon D, that was so fucking stupid_ \- was five meters away, too far away as well. The driver was nowhere to be seen, probably still in the van. Nope, still not good; he couldn’t do much, not with Hardison in the open and without any cover. He needed them to go inside, to have them all much closer, and the enclosed space was perfect for that.

He opened his mouth to say something, but stopped, rolled his eyes and went completely limp.

“Fuck,” Goon A sighed. “Ok, let’s move out of this rain… get them inside. Martin, prepare the third silo and then join us.” Okay, Martin was the driver.

He was hoping they would drag him on his back so he could see the interior, but they grabbed his upper arms and lifted him up on his feet. He immediately fell with all his weight, but they didn’t take a hint, they dragged him between them and he had to keep his head bowed. He could see the floor through his hair – corridors, smaller ramps, metal cages… and when they started to climb down, into the lower levels cut off from the dim daylight and lit only by rare yellow lights, he finally figured out what this shit was before… mainly because of the dark brown color of the ramps.

It was an abandoned slaughterhouse. The fucking irony. He would really like to see any CSI unit try to find someone’s DNA under all the layers and layers of old, dried animal blood.

He listened to their steps, waiting for them to come closer – Hardison was dragged to the end of the row, far behind them– but even the stairs and more rooms didn’t ease the cautious attention of Goon C. He would be the biggest trouble here, if his attention didn’t slip with time.

The problem was that time was something he didn’t have too much of.

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***

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Parker cursed her choice of car for the hundredth time as she went after the van onto a smaller forest road with no traffic at all. Her lights were off, the steady rain made a good veil to cover her, but her car was yellow, and completely visible from a distance. She had to give them more room, put at least two curves between them, and she drove slower, careful not to miss any junction, or smaller paths they could take.

Driving drunk was another part of the fun, and the car wasn’t listening to her sudden turns of the wheel, correcting and cutting the curves, not to mention sliding on the sandy, wet road.

For most of the last ten minutes she saw the van only briefly, far away ahead, and she almost missed them leaving the road. It was good she continued to drive for another hundred meters, thinking about where to stop, because she faced a fence, and realized she was much closer to the main building than the van. They drove carefully by a sand excavation camp, and she skipped that part and stopped before they did.

She hid the car, prepared for a tiresome and painful walk through the mud and cold rain.  The only good thing was that all five of the mobsters were occupied with their prisoners and they didn’t look around.

She found a pile of garbage near the torn wire fence that gave her good cover, but it didn’t provide any protection from the wind and the rain. She was soaking wet, and she barely managed to keep the bomb dry, safely tucked into her shirt. She put the earbud into her ear.

“You’re already on the smaller road? Look for a mark,” she said to Nate.

“Ten minutes behind you. They stopped?”

“Stay on that course and stop when you see the sand excavation camp – they are in the huge ruins behind it. I’m on that side, you try to come from the other. They stopped right now, I’m watching them.” She crawled closer, not taking her eyes from the van and people getting out.

“Hardison is on the ground, they dragged him from the van, but Eliot is standing…he’s talking with one of them, he said someth-” she quickly put a hand over her mouth to muffle her sudden cry.  “They knocked him down and they are beating him…he's not fighting back, I don’t think he can… he is just lying there… they are both down now, and they are dragging them into that building.”

“Stay put, Parker, Eliot is just playing them and buying time – they didn’t bring them all the way out here just to kill them right away, they’ll try to get everything from them first. Wait for us.”

“I’m going in, Nate, I have to see where they are, and be close if… I _have_ to go.”

“Parker, we are just ten minutes-” soft crackling sounds covered Nate’s words and the line went dead – not dead as if he stopped talking, just dead. She quickly pulled out the earbud, checking it, and cursed quietly. It was wet, the damn rain soaked her hair and destroyed the earbud too.

She put it back in the pocket, hoping that the fabric would protect it and dry it out, and went to the other side of the building to find her way in.

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***

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Their way through the building lasted much more than it should. They passed through many rooms good for interrogation, some of them even with chains and hooks for dead animals, but they just kept going, climbing down one more level below the basement. Fuck, just the thought of returning all the way up made him more tired. The bruises and contusions were not troubling him, though they didn’t help him to feel better, it was his general shitty shape that made all of this deadly. He would be completely spent very soon, with no strength to even stay upright, much less fight.

Their choice of room was more bad news. They threw them into a large open space, dimly lit with only two bulbs on a very, very high ceiling – the other end disappeared into darkness. Two large grayish spots high above them showed that the space had windows, just dirty and probably covered with something. The space was divided by something that looked like broken boxes in three visible rows, more of them behind – they probably held cattle here. When he saw two giant pipes in the middle of all that, he knew why Martin had gone to prepare the silo. Under the pipes, an entire hill of rotten sand-like mixture was rising – a perfect place to bury the bodies under the tons of remaining cattle food from the silos.

“Wake up the other guy,” Goon A ordered and one of them went to Hardison. Eliot stood silent, watching his attempts to stir him, and he couldn’t tell if Hardison was faking it, following his words, or if he was still out. Before the guy tried harder, he moved and slowly got on his knees to draw Goon A’s attention away from Hardison.

Goon C was now fucking _twenty_ meters away. And he had hoped that going into the building would force him to come closer. This shit definitely wasn’t going in a good direction.

And his mood wasn’t improving either.

Sending mixed signals to confuse Goon A might prove more difficult than he expected, but that was the only thing that he could do now. They weren’t coming near. Faking weakness…okay, not exactly faking it, more like letting it show, wasn’t working, maybe the opposite would change their behavior.

Instead of stuttering and frightened questions, he simply stood up and smiled at them.

“So, now comes the part where you scare the shit out of me, and I tell you everything I know?” he glanced around and smiled at Goon C. “Or you think that the scenery would do that before you even say the first word? Knudsen really has a nose for choosing low life thugs for the dirty work.”

Goon B and D – _damn you, Hardison, you and your stupid name-calling_ – exchanged glances and took one careful step closer to him.

“If you want me to tell you anything, you must not shoot,” he smiled again, taking a few steps closer to them, putting more distance between himself and Hardison. Of course they could shoot, and they would, but at this point it wasn’t important what he was saying, but how.

“Ah, we’ll simply shoot you,” Goon A said, sounding almost bored. “We have the other guy.”

“Yep, but he doesn’t know anything, he just babbled to buy time. I was the one who chased you away, remember? He doesn’t even know how Florence looks, much less where to find the USB.”

“So, you’re saying he’s useless?” Goon A smiled. _Fuck, he is good_. But other two guys looked at their boss, waiting for orders, and he was two more steps closer to them.

“One more step and he gets a bullet,” Goon C lifted his hand with the gun, pointing it at Hardison. It seemed that even knocking him out didn’t work like it should have, even unconscious he was being still held against him. Eliot stopped, knowing very well he had just showed them Hardison’s importance. He had no other choice.

“You’ll kill him in the end, no matter what I do. It’s better for him to go not knowing that. Go ahead, kill him – and I’ll make sure you get nothing from me. I have nothing to lose either, and it’ll be a great pleasure to screw you. After all, the two of us are the last trace to Florence. With us, your search ends right here.”

“You only think you won’t tell us anything,” Goon A motioned to other two, and they moved a few steps away from him. He didn’t turn around, keeping an eye on Goon C who still covered Hardison. C for Cautious.

“In five minutes you’ll be a crying heap of broken bones that will beg to tell us everything,” Goon A continued pleasantly.  A for Attentive. “Now, kneel, and put your hands on your head, or you’ll get two bullets in your knees.”

He should have done that immediately, instead of just threatening him with it; this guy knew a lot, but he wasn’t a real interrogator. Eliot glanced at other two that were coming closer – Goon B had a knife in his hand, and the other one had a nasty looking metal pole, torn from the animal pens. B for Bully.

 _Finally_.

He barely suppressed a cheerful grin, slowly putting his hands on his head and kneeling as he was told. He needed just two quick strikes to get rid of the one with the pole and one more to have the knife in his hands. Goon C would turn the gun from Hardison to him, but he would have two live shields from the first bullets, and the knife would take care of that deadly distance. That left only Goon A and his gun and he would have a chance to fire a few bullets – but he was closer.

He had enough strength for this sudden outburst, but barely, and he had to finish it here and now – he wouldn’t be able even to stand on his feet after that.

He bowed his head so his hair would cover his face, and took one deep breath, preparing for-

A soft giggle echoed through the building.

Everybody stopped in their tracks, and he suppressed a curse.

Another giggle was followed by a girl’s voice, coming from somewhere above them, from the other rooms. “Look, Zoey, here’s another hole! Call Nick to come and see it!” Something clanged, and quick footsteps, followed by more giggles, faded away.

 _Fuck, Parker, this isn’t smart_.

“Fucking teenagers again!” Goon A spat a curse and drew his phone. “Martin, leave the silo, we have intruders. Call five men from the camp, uniformed ones, and chase them away. See if they saw anything, and hurry the fuck up, we’re in the middle of business here!” He looked above them, to the ceiling hidden in darkness and the openings that led to other rooms and levels, and cursed again. “Move him out of sight,” he motioned to Hardison.

His knife and pole went away. Eliot sighed.

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***

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When Nate stopped the van on the main road near the sand excavation camp, hidden from the site by trees and bushes, Florence got up, ready to hurry out, but he didn’t move, he just watched the buildings in front of him.

“Do we have any weapons in the van?” she asked Sophie who was tying back her hair and buttoning a jacket.

“No.”

“Will he use that Lieutenant Webster again?” she asked.

“No. We’re not in town, in a public place, this is isolated. They would kill him and hide the body.”

Nate was still thinking.

“So, there’s six of us. Three women – one drunk and hurt, two unarmed and helpless. Three men – two down, maybe even dead, one unarmed. And five mobsters with guns. If I wrote this, it would definitely be a series finale. A tragedy. A van full of dead bodies.”

Nobody answered. Nate stopped watching the buildings, he lowered his eyes onto the road.

Florence shifted, not daring to look at the dark, foreboding building behind the hills of sand.

“Their road is newer that this one,” Nate said suddenly.

“What?”

He didn’t answer, just smiled.

“Nate, trouble.” Sophie showed him the five men that quickly moved from the excavation camp to the other building. Yes, they were going on the road that looked better maintained that this one they were on, but she couldn’t see why that was important. Five new guys, for god’s sake, and he smiled _again_ when he saw them.

“Sophie, get behind the wheel, be ready to run. Both of you stay in Lucille,” he opened the door and got out, but stopped and looked at her. “Pixie, listen to Sophie. This is not an episode, okay?”

“Okay,” she whispered.

He just left, with _no explanation_.

Sophie tapped her hand gently, and buckled herself on driver’s seat.

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***

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They were all too close to throw the bomb down, the explosion would kill them all, and Parker swore at the useless thing. She was hanging down from a cut off pole, very similar to the one that one of them was holding. It handled her weight, and she could only imagine what just one hit with that could do to a human body.

Hanging eased the pain in her leg, but it was difficult to keep her balance when it seemed that the very air around her moved, taking her with it with every sway. It wasn’t the bomb that was useless, it was her, she thought, biting her lip – she could barely walk, and her every action would only end by adding one more prisoner to the room she was observing.

She managed to stop those two from knocking Eliot down with those stupid giggles, but she heard the main guy who called for more men, and she was half crazy already – all she did was make things worse.

Staring at Hardison’s limp body was driving her nuts and she tried to read Eliot; he wouldn’t be this controlled if Hardison was dead or badly injured. He was just concentrated, not mad. At least she hoped so.

She slowly rose and let the pole go, hoisting herself to the upper level. She might draw that Martin guy after her and give Eliot more time to do something, and one less opponent.

And she knew exactly how much time she needed to get to the room she passed through while coming in there – and her bomb wouldn’t be useless then.

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***

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The wire fence was torn at the place where Nate entered the complex. It went completely around both sites, cutting through the woods pretty far behind the slaughterhouse. The main road went around it, following the fence, but he returned a few hundred meters from the place where he left Lucille.

He had an earbud in just in case Parker came back online, but he completely muted a quiet conversation between Florence and Sophie, leaving the grifter to deal with the frightened writer.

The road which connected the long abandoned slaughterhouse and the working sand excavation camp really was far better maintained than the main road that ran parallel with that one… and occasional interrogation sessions couldn’t be the main cause for that investment. There must’ve been something more to it besides a good and isolated place to bring enemies. Yet, now was not the time to think about that, he had work to do.

Going to the slaughterhouse would do no good, there wasn’t a scam or a grift he could try on five killers. He would just be a witness to get rid of.

He had to have faith in the three of them, and he did, but his mind was always too quick when trying out all the possibilities, and with every step he took, another way for them all to end up killed was forming in his head. Fortunately, it went in all directions, so every possible action had at least three of their reactions, and all of that was going in an endless circle. Killed, not killed, killed, not killed, killed… It definitely didn’t help him to concentrate on the things he could do.

The excavation camp was too near and full of people who would come to help in a matter of minutes, and he had to think in advance. Diversions in the slaughterhouse he had to leave to Parker… he should be creating a different one.

For the tenth time he cursed their ten minute delay in coming – it would be perfect if he could stop the five that had already gone into the ruins – but he reminded himself again to put some fucking trust in them… no matter how much the fear played with his mind.

The sand grinding machines had been spreading their huge metal hands all over the place, but they were silent now. Rain and late afternoon stopped the machinery; only three big trucks were moving, finishing the last loads of the day.

He went as close as he could, covered by the veil of rain, examining the tipper trucks and dump trucks parked in a row. It was normal to see them at this place, but at the end of the row were five closed ones, not suitable for a loose material such as sand. The parking place for the trucks was guarded by an electric fence, three meters high. Without any visible warning.

He knew nothing about sand excavation, but even he could tell there were too many of them, thirty five. They were shiny, bright yellow, glistening in the rain and under the strong lights that were already turned on, waiting for the quickly falling darkness.

He circled around the fence, and he was lucky – doors weren’t closed yet. He pulled out his phone and took as many pictures as he could, at the same time listening to every sound around him. The slaughterhouse was silent, and he tried to keep his eyes off of it, and to concentrate only on this site.

A small part of the parking lot, in the back and behind all the trucks, was covered, and there were no trucks, just one Ford pickup, loaded with bright colored packages. The place had been transformed into something like service station, or repair shop, completely open at the front.

He should be able to find everything he needed there.

He checked the direction of the wind and went closer, using the trucks as cover, counting the minutes that passed.

The silence from the warehouse was twisting his belly into painful knot of barbed wire.

 :

:


	18. Chapter 18

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***

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The damn whiskey must have caused all the tears; Parker had no other explanation for the veil that blurred the already dim lights in the strange rooms and corridors. Whiskey and dust. Her every step made little clouds, and everything she touched was covered with a thick layer of old dust that forced her to cough.

The stupid coughing brought Martin on her trail, and she couldn’t get rid of him – he was closing in and her leg was in agony. She turned around and looked at the footsteps she was leaving behind – one trail was long stripe in the dust, she started to drag her leg. Too painful to walk.

She turned left after one more half destroyed room. This one had no outer wall and she could see dark forest through the tears that started again.

She was too far away from Hardison and Eliot, they were deep in the basement, two levels beneath the ground, yet she had to go and leave them, no matter how many tears that stupid whiskey made her cry. Slowly, but steadily, she was making one big circle, leading Martin away from them, and getting closer to the room on the ground level, near the place she entered. She knew that another five mobsters were already in the building and she hoped they were somewhere near, searching for her, and not going down to the others. That would be a death sentence for Hardison and Eliot.

She hated fear. And she hated to hate. The hate was driving her mad. She quietly chuckled, remembering something that Hardison told her once… _fear leads to anger, anger leads to hate, hate leads to suffering_ … something about Jedis and the Force. Well, her hate wasn’t leading to suffering, at least not hers. When she hated, the others were suffering.

Oh God, she was so mad. And she _wasn’t_ crying. Tears were just an effect of the whiskey.

She stopped for a moment, resting her back on the wall, checking the bomb with trembling hands. It was dry. Two more turns.

The steps behind her sounded closer, and she gritted her teeth and continued.

It took a few more minutes to find that room, the one with the functioning doors and big, closed metal breaker boxes. The electric switchboards for entire building, still kept in pretty good shape.

She quickly checked the timer on the bomb, set it to thirty seconds, and placed the bomb under the middle breaker, hurrying out and in the opposite direction.

The explosion knocked her down in the middle of a step – she didn’t have time to reach the end of the corridor, but at least Martin wouldn’t be able to find her in the darkness.

The darkness that would give only a chance to Eliot and Hardison.

She curled up by the wall, waiting for the mortar and dust to settle, listening breathlessly to the sound of the explosion that still echoed through the building. She would have pretty big problems finding her way down, down, and to find them.

The echo was cut off by other explosions - loud gunshots below her. She held her breath.

She counted six bullets, fired slowly, with pauses. And then silence, deadly silence.

She clutched her head for a moment, unable to locate the source of the new pain, the new, burning one that struck through her heart.  Now she finally understood that ‘suffering’ part.

Whiskey was to blame, she said to herself; whiskey made her cry…

No, no crying, just eyes full of dust.

Nothing more.

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***

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The guy with the pole had done these things before, because he hit him in the head with enough strength to spin and blacken everything around him, but not nearly hard to knock him down.

Hardison was dragged five more meters away from him, closer to Goon C, so that meant that the knife and the gun were out of his reach, not to mention Goon A with another gun, and Eliot had to let this one hit him, until the knife came back. For now, he was sure he was doing ‘helpless victim only few hits before breaking and spilling everything’ pretty accurate and convincingly.

Until now, the beating wasn’t worse than a rough sparring, but after a series of quick blows in the head and the back, he found getting up from the dusty floor a task that needed immense concentration to perform, and the guy before him became blurry and tilting.

He calmly calculated how much time he had before the accumulated pain and disorientation severely ruined all chances of his attack; not much, if the guy continued with the same enthusiasm. He flailed with his left hand once, and missed him, stumbling to the ground again, just to show them he was unable to coordinate his moves. That didn’t bring the guy with the knife back, and he had to wait more. Well, this _was_ stalling… sort of, he thought after one nasty blow sent him rolling over the floor – he rolled towards Goon C, decreasing the distance to nine meters instead of ten. If nothing else, he didn’t have to fake panting, because every breath he took was a fiery cut, and he couldn’t catch enough of it to spit any curse at them.

“This is unreasonable!” Hardison’s voice stopped another blow.  At any other moment he would welcome this little diversion of their attention, but not now when Hardison waking up only meant that the guy with the knife might stay close to him to prevent his possible moves… or something even worse. Eliot curled up on the ground to erase any thoughts of eventual threat on his part, checking on the hacker. Hardison was up on his knees, swaying and unfocused. He clutched the massive railings behind his back and hoisted himself up, and his every move was a show of an uncoordinated, completely lost person. He tried to walk but his legs gave way and he just crumpled where he was, laying like he was dead, with his arms spread out.

Eliot had no idea if that was an act, or if he was really shook up, but the timing of it showed him that the hacker was giving him a little time to get it together… at least he hoped it was so, and not just a coincidence.

He needed him awake and able to clear out when shit started. He eyed him once more, noticing he was now a little further from the center. When he gave him a sign, the hacker would need only a few steps to disappear among the rows of boxes, out of their sight.

The guy with the knife went closer to the hacker, hitting him with his foot, but no reaction came.

“Leave that one, we have time for him later,” Goon A ordered shortly. “This one won’t talk – maybe it’s time to show him we are serious.” He got one nod in response, and Eliot widened his eyes as much as he could, watching the knife approaching. _It's about fucking time_. He crawled one step away, only to be stopped with the pole across his back. He didn’t turn around, he didn’t need to. _Seventy five centimeters, seven o’clock, weight on his left foot, slightly unbalanced._

Goon B grinned, reflecting the pale yellow light from the blade into his eyes, and stopped one meter in front of him. Finally, the knife and the pole were within his reach.

“We can cut your face and your fingers first, so no one will recognize you if you’re found,” the guy smiled when Eliot flinched and got on his knees, and slowly, painfully, to his feet, one step to the left – Goon C had to move, Goon B was now in his line of sight. “Where shall we start?”

“Oh, I have a few ideas,” he looked him in the eyes and smiled, straightening just a little, enough to make other guy’s eyes blink with uncertainty. He put the knife between two of them, as a shield – _thank you, that is appreciated_ – but Eliot had no time to start.

The sound of a large explosion went through the building, shaking the unstable ruins, and all of them could hear screeching in the walls, and rumble from all around.

Yet, no one could see the effects of explosion, because along with the sound, all the lights flickered and went out, leaving them all in pitch darkness. _Good job, Parker_.  A soft rustle on the floor where Hardison was told him that the hacker didn’t need his sign to clear out – and he was finally free to act.

Eliot moved two steps to the right in the darkness, closing his eyes.

“Hello there,” he drawled, softly, letting the smile be heard.

And _then_ , he started.

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***

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Florence managed to keep quiet when they heard the explosion, but when the sound of gunshots reached the van, she looked at Sophie. The dark haired woman was looking right in front of her, her face set in an expressionless mask, not giving away any clue to what was going on in her mind.

They were parked on the road, half way between the camp and the ruined building, able to see both through the trees. Sophie’s eyes were set on the camp, she didn’t look at the ruins _once_. Florence was pretty certain if there had been a magazine in the van that Sophie wouldn't even look at the camp.

“I should have brought the bullets for my gun from my apartment,” she whispered, unable to stand the silence any longer. “Is there anything, _anything_ we can do?

Sophie slowly turned to her. “No,” she said calmly. “Just… trust in them all.”

She couldn’t.

Florence averted her eyes from her, watching the sudden activity in the excavation camp. The explosion and gunshots drew small figures out, reminding her of an ant hill someone stirred with a stick. A few cars and one truck left the camp, but many of them were still inside, doing who knew what. Nate was in the middle of that, for Christ’s sake. She curled up in the passenger’s seat.

“Fasten your seat belt, Florence.”  Sophie’s voice suddenly sounded serious, and she quickly obeyed.

“What’s going on?”

“You asked if there was anything we could do… well, there is now.”

Florence squinted. One of the cars that left the camp, a large SUV, was heading in their direction. There was a chance they would just pass them and continue on, right? But even before she saw they were slowing down, she knew it was a fool’s hope.

Sophie waited until the driver stopped and two men got out, coming to Lucille, and then Lucille’s engine roared and Florence grabbed her seat.

She would never, ever, be able to write a car chase without this horrible, sinking feeling in her gut.

Reality sucked.

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***

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Nate was sure that a violent thrust with a screwdriver would make a hole in the truck’s gas tank, but the only result was a jolt of pain that shot through his hand and arm. He hurried back into the covered space, shaking his numb hand, silently cursing, and came back with the screwdriver and a hammer.

That worked. The trickle of gasoline was small, so he made another hole on the upper part to let the air in; that worked even better, and in a less than a minute the five tripper trucks were leaking fuel, making puddles. In another minute the puddles connected and spread out under the vehicles, and the odor was thick and heavy. Evaporation could make a critical mass in a matter of seconds, so he retreated to the Ford parked on the other end, to prepare a welding machine he had found near it.

He hid behind it at the last moment – loud shouts, orders, the sound of running and curses were spreading in the middle of the camp, around the main buildings and containers – nobody came to that side, but it was only a matter of time before someone would come to check the trucks.

His dark gray suit was almost invisible against the dark green Ford, in the diminishing daylight, and roof covered him from the large lights that were lit all around. He examined the packages in the back of the pickup, in case he should have to hide in there – sealed, with Chinese letters, seven of them… too small to give any decent cover. He took pictures, and one more of entire the pickup - Ford Super Duty F-250 DRW XL, brand new, shining like the majority of the trucks. And it wasn’t washed by rain, he was shielded.

Something was strange here, but he couldn’t catch it.

He waited, observing the mess in the center, waiting for someone to give direct orders, and he didn’t have to wait long. After the initial turmoil one voice took over and sent ten more men into the ruins, to check out the explosion and gunshots that followed.

He started to count, giving them time to leave the camp, turning the welding machine on.

This was the tricky part: the gasoline vapor was thick by now, and he could easily blow himself up along with the trucks, so he placed the white hot stream two meters away from the first puddle, retreating as far as he could.

He chose the working trucks at the far end for the explosion, far away from the covered ones and the Ford – those needed an inspection, not destruction.

He was almost fifty meters away when the first man noticed him and raised the alarm, but before they could gather and go after him, a hiss of flame started ignition. Detonation moved the ground below his feet, and the blast threw him into the bushes.

He struggled to his feet, turning just once; the ten men sent to the ruins were running back to the camp.

He smirked once and disappeared in the woods to find a good observation spot.

They would be busy with saving the covered trucks from spreading the fire and no one would be sent to join the rest of them in the ruins again, but he had to be sure.

He made himself busy with other plans he could use if he needed another distraction; everything was better than listening to the dreadful silence that fell on the ruins after the gunshots.

Six bullets.

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***

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Things weren’t going as smooth as Eliot wanted. Not a surprise, knowing he stayed conscious only by reminding himself that he should be upright and standing; his moves were a faltering mess, weak and inaccurate.

Eliot hit the one with the pole with an elbow in the head, turning – Jesus, he was so damn slow - to  Goon B with the knife, and he almost finished his move when he realized that the first one only staggered  and didn’t fall. Fuck, he overestimated his strength, obviously, and this was payback time. You couldn’t lift the damn window, he reminded himself.

He used Goon B as a shield from the pole, but his knife flew away in the darkness, out of his sight and reach. It took three hits to knock the man down, three dangerously slow seconds, and his advantage started to disappear. When he realized he could see the profile of the man with the pole, he remembered the two windows high above them – they were providing some light, and their eyes were adjusting to the darkness. He knew that Goons A and C could see his silhouette too. The first bullet that came close to him confirmed that happy thought.

He was too slow, and pole got him over the shoulder, he just managed to avoid a hit in the head. The fall was heavy, he crashed onto his back, all the air going out of his lungs in one painful exhale. Only his reflexes saved him, he instinctively rolled away, avoiding two more blows.

For ten dreadful seconds he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t inhale, all strength was drained from him. But he had to get up.

One more bullet came dangerously closer this time; the eyes of Goon A were adjusting too quickly to the dark and he could see their shapes. If he let this one occupy him just a few seconds more, that would be it. Time was running out faster than his strength.

He brought his attacker down with a hit to his legs, but this time it took the same amount of time for both of them to hoist themselves up.

Third bullet went through Hardison’s jacket, two inches from his ribs.

The fourth one would kill him.

He avoided three more swings of the pole, barely seeing the movement, more by listening to the air that hissed around him, and at the end of the third swing he closed the distance, throwing himself directly into the man, crashing him to the floor. He hit him with his head while they were falling, and two more times when they landed, and he was sure this one would stay down.

But he stayed down too. The opponent's elbow had found its way to his chest in that collision, and the pain was unbearable.

Moving his arms became an impossible task, and when he tried to push himself off the ground they just refused to obey, he fell back, gasping for air. _Stay down, they can’t see you now, black on black_.

Yet, he knew, if he stayed down, he wouldn’t be able to get up.

 _Two down, two to go_. Two with guns, out of his reach.

He bit back the curse, closed his eyes, and waited.

He could hear Goon C slowly moving – his steps were cautious and steady; he was trying to come closer, to find an angle that would help him to see who was where on the dark floor full of garbage.

Just a few more steps, he needed him to come just three meters closer, and he would be in the reach, he could tackle him and knock him on the floor.

But the man stopped, when a low rumble was heard again. Another explosion, not in this building, but close. For a few seconds he was thrown back into the basement corridor of _Estrella_ – gunpowder, shots, darkness, the sound of an explosion and the pain cut off his breathing, pushing him to the very edge of a panic attack. _Nate, what the hell are you doing_? Sophie and Florence were with him, for god’s sake… for a moment he was completely unstrung, with one more crisis to handle, the three of them too far away to do anything, out of his reach - but he snapped himself out of it. _One shit at a time_.

Damn, he had to move. He slowly slowed his breathing, once more gathering everything he had in him – and how tired he was of this shit, it was simply indescribable – and raised himself to his knees. Three meters. When he jumped up, he would be charging right into his gun, in the dark… but it was the only way.

He tensed every muscle that he could command, not taking his eyes from the man and his gun, but right before the moment he started, a quiet sound from somewhere to the left of him drew Goon C’s attention.

 _Fuck, Hardison is still here and he’ll…_. He sprang to his feet driven by a sudden burst of rage and fear, and slammed into Goon C with all his force. The gun went off, he felt the warmth of the bullet, and just the thought that he might be too late, that the bullet might hit the hacker painted everything red. At the last second, with his last conscious thought, he moved his hands from his head and didn’t snap his neck, just hitting him instead. He threw him to the ground like a bag and turned to Goon A who hesitated for one second, his gun moving from him to the place from where the sound was heard.

But he was closer, and he could see his hand turning to him. He had exactly one second to reach him – four meters… he would get two bullets. Maybe even more, he was much slower. He had to kill him with the first hit, because he wouldn’t have time for the second, and Hardison would be left with him alone.

He took one last, deep breath, and started.

.

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***

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Hardison was the only one who wasn’t completely blind when the explosion cut off the lights, because his eyes were closed the whole time, and he opened them to a grayish, shadowy world, not the pitch black that surrounded everybody else.

The only problem was he was seeing two of everything.

He came to his senses when they threw him on the sand by the van, he was out less than a minute – _somebody_ obviously misjudged his strength. And what about asking nicely, huh? He could _pretend_ to be out, but that thought was obviously too much for _somebody_. He was starting to see a pattern here, and he could almost imagine Eliot’s vision with red letters on display in the corners of his eyes; _dangerous situation – teammates in his way – remove – exterminate_. Fucking violent types with one track minds… he was almost as tired of his shortcuts as he was of his duty issues. So what if he was the hitter, he wasn’t subscribed to all the shit that came their way. Sometimes, and he was determined to teach him that, it was okay to share the load, even with the less successful. This _protect with life_ thing was starting to scare the shit out of him.

He wasn’t completely helpless. While they were dragging him, he managed to lift a phone from one guy – yes, it might be only his third successful lift in almost five years, but he did it now, in a stressful situation, when it mattered the most. He also had a pocket full of wires that he pulled out in the van, and when they threw him on the floor, he found one long, rusty nail that was almost as useful as a real knife.

He. Wasn’t. Fucking. Helpless.

He was just scared. According to _somebody_ , fear was good.

And he had a concussion, but he would rather die than tell him that a not very strong collision with the wall shook his brain so much that he was seeing everything double. He was tougher than that, it was just… unhappy chance.  A moment of temporary softening of his skull. Somethin’ like that.

His fear grew stronger when the lights went out and when Eliot started, because he could clearly see how slow he was, and how much effort it took to bring the first two down. If the hitter was clever, if he calculated him into his action, as an active role, and not just as _keep safe_ , they could do it together.

Yet, he understood. And he knew he shared that feeling, just he wasn’t very often in a position to stand between his friends and danger. And when he saw that Eliot tried to get up, and fell back – two Eliots, but both of them damn clear – he swallowed all his complaints about the hitter and felt the same rage and fear Eliot must have felt from when this shit started.

A nearby explosion told him that the other part of the team wasn’t idle as well – Nate was obviously very busy. It was about time for all of them to clear out.

 _No, you won’t_ , he thought watching Goon C coming closer, searching for the hitter, aiming the gun deadly close – and he slowly stepped closer, intentionally making noise. He had to give Eliot that second to react.

 _Remove, exterminate_. He had to bite back a laugh when _he_ felt that, when he almost continued to Goon C to stop him. But he stopped. He wouldn’t be faster than Eliot, even in this condition.

He almost squinted at their collision, but when the bullet went off, and he couldn’t see who was hit, he forgot to breathe. The other guy fell, Eliot was standing, but there was the last one, with yet another gun, and this damn idiot, _again_ , didn’t stop for a second to think that there were two of them now, he just turned to Goon A. Hardison could see his mind, his decision, and his heart literally stopped for a heartbeat when he charged directly toward the gun.

At the moment Eliot moved, Hardison threw the nail and hit the Goon A in the face. It didn’t move his hand with the gun, but the first bullet went with a second’s delay, and Eliot was already falling. No, not falling, he was sliding with his feet first, under the bullets that were expecting him in front, and he slammed into Goon A’s legs, knocking him down. The guy fell hard, slammed his head on the metal railings, and didn’t move anymore.

But he wasn’t the only one that stayed on the ground. He should have expected that, it would be a miracle if Eliot could now stand on his feet, but nevertheless fear grabbed him with renewed strength.

Hardison hurried to him, stumbling over unseen things, nearly falling over him; Eliot was curled up on the ground, on his left side. Hardison quickly pointed the stolen phone and in blue light he could see he was conscious, just too spent to do anything except breathe.

He turned him onto his back, pointing the phone at his face. “Are you shot?” he asked, worriedly monitoring his almost closed eyes.

“No… I don’t think so.”  Eliot’s voice sounded more uninterested than weak. Uh–oh.

He swallowed the fear and nudged him. “Naw, don’t play that shit on me – stay awake or I’ll have to slap you, and we both know how that’ll end.”

“I’m awake.” More quiet, absent words, he wasn’t quite present. Hardison quickly ran his hands over him, trying to find any new wounds, just in case, and the fact Eliot didn’t try to push him away or stop him told him exactly what state he was in. For someone who wasn’t supposed to be able to climb down the stairs to the street, he was doing surprisingly well. He had no idea how, though… fucking stubbornness was only a part of the answer. He should have been down before they stopped the van.

He pulled him up to sit. Letting him stay down would only push him deeper into unconsciousness, and he was balancing on the very edge of it already.

“All four are down, but they might get up soon, and we have to move,” he said gently when he was sure the hitter would stay upright. “We have to find Parker, another five are coming. Can you walk?”

The silence spread while Eliot was thinking, and Hardison worriedly thought about slapping him when he spoke at last.

“I need four minutes. Then I’ll walk.” He blinked slowly, focusing. “A phone?”

“Successful lift. You didn’t hit me as hard as you thought. You’re getting soft.”

No comment on that, and he should snapped at him. Hardison leaned of the railings above him; the dizziness was making him sick, and he tried not to show it. He still saw everything double.

Eliot leaned his left shoulder on the railings, resting, and Hardison examined the phone just to keep a little light, so he could keep an eye on him. His hands were clutched around his chest, but as far as he could see, he was breathing normally, not too quick or shallow. In fact, slower than he should-

“Eliot, open your eyes, or I’ll poke you to see if you’re awake, and you don’t want that.”

“Inner feng shui needs dark,” he whispered but he lifted his head up.

“Stay right there.” Hardison turned around and went back into the open space, trying to ease his panic and the urge to hurry the fuck up - he frantically searched for the guns, the knife, or anything that they could use – and it was just useless floundering in the darkness, he was staggering as the room spun around him. He didn’t even know where the exit was, in which direction, and even if he knew, they couldn’t go that way, five men were coming and they would bump right into them. He was stuck in this fucking labyrinth with a barely conscious man, and he was unarmed. They were two stories below the ground level. The full severity of the situation hit him when he realized that only thing he could do was to move Eliot deeper into the rows of animal pens and then to bring those five somewhere after him.

He turned around, misjudged the distance, and crashed face first into a column he didn’t see – and that showed him how successful that diversion would be.

For starters, they had to move away from the four who could easily come together faster than Eliot’s usual opponents. He groped around until he felt his jacket, then pulled him up on his feet. “C’mon, we have to move. We can’t stay close to these guys.”

“Dammit, Hardison, what part of the four minutes didn't you-”

“No complaining, just walk.” He pulled him carefully in a randomly chosen direction, and made him walk until he was sure those four would have trouble finding them, and he let him sit only when he was sure that behind their backs was something solid, made of wood and steel.

“We could call Nate,” he said when he felt Eliot was drifting away again.

“Could?”

“I don’t know his number by heart. Do you?”

“How can you not know-” Good, a little annoyance crept back into Eliot’s voice, he didn’t sound so absent. “No, I don’t know his number… he’s on speed dial.”

“Cool. Sophie’s? No? I thought so. I’ll try to-”

“Where are you?” Parker’s voice was coming from the other end of this middle part – a quiet whisper, but strong enough to carry. He lifted the hand with the phone and sent the blue signal into the darkness.

“She’s limping.” One more absent remark from the hitter, barely audible. He lowered his head again and Hardison reached to nudge him but missed, his hand went by his shoulder. He aimed at the other Eliot, and he remembered to aim between the two images the next time.  The headache was getting stronger. He calculated the trajectory and tried again, this time reaching his shoulder – he must have poked something hit because the hitter hissed through gritted teeth, and recoiled from his touch.

“Nothing better than a little pain to wake you up,” he grinned, though he didn’t feel like grinning at all. “Focus, Eliot. Just a few more minutes, and we’ll be out of here. Stay with me, okay?”

“The fifth guy is somewhere near those silos, he lost me in the dark,” Parker whispered, crouching next to them, grabbing them both at their forearms – her version of a quick hug. “We have to go, five new ones entered the building, they are climbing down as we speak.”

“Between us and the exit,” Eliot said, and Hardison knew what he was thinking. He couldn’t fight those five, hell, all three of them couldn’t fight them.

“I entered on the opposite side,” Parker said. “One wall is crushed, the holes are big enough for all of us. The only problem is-”

“Speed,” Hardison finished. She was limping, Eliot might not be able to walk at all, and he was seeing double, his vision was completely fucked up.

As if answering their thoughts, a quiet noise, metal on metal, was heard not very far away, only a few rooms, and one level above them. They might be slow because of the darkness, but they weren’t stopping. And they would have torch lights.

“It's simple,” Hardison said. “I’ll draw them away deeper into the building, away from Parker’s route and lose them there, then simply go out where we entered. And I suggest you start walking, as in now.”

Eliot _chuckled_. “You’re fucking joking, right?” he whispered hoarsely.

“What? No, I’m serio-”

“Really? Take this,” Eliot handed them something – he flashed the phone and saw the keys from his jacket – but when he reached for them his hand went by, again, missing them by ten inches.

“You have a concussion, Hardison,” Eliot continued. “You won’t be able to find your way out of here even without those guys, Parker will have to lead you by the hand, step by step.  Which is good, because you’ll be able to help her walk.”

“Seriously? You’re out of your-”

“I said I needed four minutes.” Eliot slowly lifted himself to his feet. He did help himself with the railings, but it was one, pretty swift move for someone who should be feeling beaten to a pulp. “I’m not telling you how to hack, Hardison. This is my job, and my rules.”

“He’s right.” Parker got up too. “We have to go.”

“What? You too?” He couldn’t believe his eyes – which was expected because he was staring at four of them hovering over him – but those two always had the same, strange, almost non human reaction to things that needed to be done.

“I’ll simply walk in the dark, Hardison.” Eliot sounded tired. “Yep, you two could do it, too, but what if shit happens, while leading those five deeper into the building you get too close? Or they jump you, or you get stuck at some dead end? The hitter is the one who can deal with unexpected attacks, and get out alive, okay?”

Hardison just shook his head, regretting it immediately when everything spun. He knew that this long and patient explanation was just because Eliot felt guilty for slamming his head into the wall – he would have been snarling the order instead. He knew it was the logical and right thing to do.

Fuck logic, it was simply _wrong_.

And he could do fucking nothing about it.


	19. Chapter 19

 

***

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.

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Eliot tried to wait until Hardison’s and Parker’s footsteps disappeared at the other end of the room, before blindly reaching for the railings, but he managed to stay upright only for a few seconds. Holding something firm helped when his knees buckled, he could ease the fall into a slow lowering.

 _Four minutes, right_ … he needed four days to recover from this, but he had to get rid of them as soon as possible. They would be slow – Parker was in the worst shape he had ever seen her, and Hardison was practically useless in this dark, with dizziness and double vision. They’d need three times as much time to reach the other end, if they didn’t get stuck somewhere in this fucking labyrinth.

He couldn’t walk. The good thing was, he didn’t need to. Those five would be here in the less than a minute, according to the sounds they made, closer every second, and at the moment they realized he was still here, they would stay until they found him.

By the time they spread out and started to search the endless rows of pens, garbage and ruined walls, he would be able to move and go around them and behind their backs. That’d do.

After that, he had a much more demanding task in front of him – go all the way up to the ground level. Fucking _stairs_. He remembered two large sets of stairs connecting the two levels, and he would find a way through the rooms that connected them.

Okay, one problem at a time.

Compared to That Night, this was nothing. He was just weak, nothing more. When he played hide and seek in the slam with Chileans chasing him, he was literally dying – and he managed to escape them. Just when he thought that, he became aware of the mistake he made, when the darkness around him changed and the remaining traces of the gunpowder still present in the air became stronger.

Fuck.

He could feel his pulse speeding up as he tried to stay focused, to stay here and now, but the damage was done, and disorientation hit him hard. For a few seconds he couldn’t decipher where he was – being chased through a slam in complete darkness, exhausted to the point he wished he was dead, or in the slaughterhouse, in the same darkness, and feeling pretty much the same.

 _Calm down, just breathe_.

He forced himself up on his feet, dismissing all the plans and predictions – he had to move, do something, anything, that would return him back to the present.

He was half way across the giant place when the screaming voice in his head finally broke through the fog and dizziness, warning him of mistakes, so he slowed down before he jumped right in front of five armed men. Shit, they were close, on this level now, and he could expect them in seconds.

He lost track of the minutes and had no idea how far Hardison and Parker were on the opposite end, so he pulled a few rusty poles from the railings, letting them roll on the floor, making as much noise as he could. He blindly retreated deeper into the rows when the first torch lights started to penetrate the dark.

He was too weak to raise the dam in his mind, to stop the flood of images and sounds. A calm place in his mind kept talking that this was expected – a conversation with Hardison brought all that shit too close to the surface, and the darkness, gunshots and pain deranged him – but the voice couldn’t tell him how to fucking _stop_ it.

He continued to walk, slowly, using one pole to make noise, and he could see the flashes that were gathering to him.

Concentration on the endless turns and pens he had to avoid lost him even further, and he only managed to keep track of basic directions, avoiding the part where the two of them disappeared.

“Stay where you are!”

He turned around to face a man who advanced around one wall, and found himself staring into the smiling, calm, very alive face of Gary Barclay. _Cool. Hallucinations again. Missed them a lot_. He almost laughed when his first thought was to bring Parker somehow, to prove to her, once and for all, that he _didn’t_ cut off his head and put it in a box. Only after that he moved, waiting for the storming attacker. He had no idea what he had done, his body went into auto pilot for a few seconds – which was good, considering the pudding his brain was – and the man went flying over the half of the room, and stayed down.

This one came from the wrong direction, they had spread out too much and started to surround him, and it was time to retreat. He reached the first stairs that should take him up one more level, when he remembered he could have searched the fallen man for weapons. Well, he knew he would make mistakes, that was expected… just as long he was aware of them, he should be fine.

Before he started to climb – and he hoped he remembered the path through the upper story – he realized that this one was Goon D. They might all be awake by now.

He groped until he found a door, and slammed them as hard as he could, sending a sound louder than a gunshot, just in case. Parker and Hardison were probably already out, but he couldn’t risk them being followed and caught. Not now. He waited until he heard quick steps heading in his direction, then continued.

He couldn’t count those steps – their sound was covered by the gunshots echoing in his mind.

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***

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Lucille was a van, for crying out loud, and vans weren’t supposed to escape from SUVs on their tails… especially not from this one – Florence peeked in the rearview mirror at the nasty looking, powerful machine that was roaring after them. The road they were driving on was too narrow and the killers couldn’t align with them to shoot or to try to throw them off the road, but that could change… in fact, that was _changing_.

They must have been at least one mile away from the complex already, and the road was becoming straight, better, and wider. Nah, in the end it wasn’t making any difference, the SUV could outrun them both on a highway, and on a muddy forest path.

“Of course not,” Sophie answered to someone and Florence put her earbud in again, catching the end of Nate’s sentence. “… completely sure?”

“Yes. Don’t worry. Just do your part, we’ll be okay.”

Florence blinked, glaring at her and her light smile.

“Parker called Nate, she and Hardison are out. We’re supposed to pick them up somewhere behind the complex, they’ll go through the woods to the road. Eliot is still inside, but he’ll be out, probably, by the time we meet Nate.”

Florence took one long, long breath. “Sophie, we are being chased away from that point… and I don’t see how we can escape those guys in the SUV. I think our best chance is to continue and drive until we find the nearest village or town, and go directly to the police station.”

Sophie smiled, speeding up, looking right in front of her. “Good plan,” she said lightly. “It only has one mistake… we are not being chased, darling. We are simply stopping them from joining the others at the complex.”

“Okay, if you like to think positive, I won’t argue with that,” she sighed, noticing the slip in the grifter’s concentration; she started to slow down, looking more at the woods on the both sides of the road, than in front of her. “But I still-”

“I suggest you start screaming. That releases the tension and helps with stress,” Sophie cut off her words.

“Screaming? Why the hell should I-” Sophie gave her no warning, she just violently turned the wheel, and Lucille almost jumped up in the air, going from the main road to a barely visible path between two trees, with just enough room to pull through. Fuck, she _screamed_. She could hear branches screeching on their roof and on both sides. “What are you – So-… Sophie, they are in an SUV! They are much better for this kind of – Jesus, slow down, you’ll kill us – this is a fucking van!!”

The grifter just grinned – an extremely disturbing sight. Florence could do nothing except clutch at her seat, trying not to bump too hard against the door with Lucille’s violent jerks – it was just a matter of time before they would get stuck in the mud, or crash into a fallen tree – going onto an unknown path when being chased by someone was lunatic. And how was this helping? Lucille struggled, slower and slower, while the SUV followed them with ease. They were further from the place they had to go, and they would end up killed, and nobody would ever-

“Hold on.” Sophie’s warning sounded ominous, but the reality was much worse than her expectations. She hit the brakes and dug the van in the mud, changed gears and went _back_ , directly into the approaching SUV.

Florence bit off a scream and curled into the seat, waiting for the impact that never came… just the agonizing roar of an overwrought engine, and a loud crash when the SUV, avoiding them, turned abruptly off the narrow path and crashed into a tree.

Sophie didn’t even blink, she continued to drive backwards, passing the car turned on its side, choosing her way with only two small mirrors, and Florence felt her eyes widening in horror… she wouldn’t dare take this road even on a bike, to say nothing about half blindly driving a giant van _backwards_.

She wasn’t able to form any word until they reached the main road again, when Sophie turned the van around and went back to the complex.

“Remind me to distract Hardison from examining the scratches,” was only Sophie’s interjection.

“Yes, Ma’am,” Florence squeaked.

Sophie raised one dark eyebrow, and winked.

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.

 

***

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Jesus, Betsy would bitch him out about his stress levels again. For days.

His heart beat was too rapid to be counted, and climbing each stair was a demanding task that needed at least five seconds to execute. Every other stair was invisible, they simply disappeared when his vision blackened out. Eliot wasn’t quite sure if he was making any progress; as far as he knew, he might be just standing. Or lying down.

With his mind playing tricks on him, he couldn’t trust anything he saw or felt.

Five times he almost stumbled, though he could see everything pretty well because those stairs opened into the ground level with huge windows, and dim light was coming through the holes in the walls. He felt like he'd been walking for hours, though he knew that outside was still just evening – dark and stormy, but with enough daylight to see.

The man that jumped him didn’t make a mistake and yell at him to stop like the last one did. This one sneaked silently, grabbed his shoulder and turned him to face a gun.

They were supposed to be one level below, his slow mind processed, but then he recognized him. Goon A – clearly awake. And clever enough to go up and wait him at the only entrance he knew about.

 _If this was Goon A..._ a warning thought formed in his mind.

He froze.

His gun was just ten inches from his face but he did nothing, he just stared into him, unable to move his arms. This could be Hardison, or Parker. Last time he killed the man with Nate’s face, with Nate’s voice, knowing it wasn’t him, but now he knew _nothing_. He stood frozen, unable to force himself to move.

Just one second before he pulled the trigger – and he knew that exactly – Goon A’s jacket exploded. Okay, maybe this wasn’t Hardison or Parker, somehow exploding jackets were not connected to them; Jesus, he was really completely out of it, he couldn’t believe the crap that was floating around in his brain – and he just watched the flames that burst from his pocket, trying to decipher the riddle. Goon A seemed to be surprised as well because his scream sounded more scared than pained. He turned his gun - again – on him, but something got in the way, jerking and twisting the hand with the gun, and the fired bullet went by his right shoulder. Goon A was spun in a familiar move, and he disappeared from his sight along with the burning jacket.

He should turn his head to see where he ended up, but that was too exhausting. Instead he just blinked, once. That was tiresome, too.

The thing that had knocked the man down stood in front of him, with wild eyes in a strangely ashen face. “What the fuck is wrong with you?!” Ah, Hardison. Half shouting, half squeaking Hardison. “Are you trying to kill yourself?!”

 _What a stupid question._ No, he was pretty sure he wasn’t.

If he started to list what was wrong with him, he would never stop. He stayed silent.

“ _The hitter is the one who can deal with unexpected attacks, and get out alive_?  Did I remember it correctly? What was this, Eliot, huh?! You just, just… fuck, if we weren’t close…” Hardison sounded furious and scared. He couldn’t quite understand why, though, what was so disturbing in all of this, except that flaming jacket. Hardison put both of his hands on his shoulders, concentrated until he found his face, and stared at him as if he expected him to say something.

“What?” he whispered.

“What?! You’re asking me what…” Hardison moaned in frustration, but he let him go. “C’mon, let’s get the hell out of here.”

He knew they had to go, but his mind refused to cooperate, he didn’t know where, and why. Just one thought was clear. “Please, tell me… that you didn’t escape through one exit… just to go around the building, and enter _again_?”

“You weren’t coming out,” he said as if that explained it.

“You’re an idiot.”

Hardison just spread his arms in a helpless gesture. That was too much. He opened his mouth to tell him everything he thought about the utter stupidity of that, but the ground moved under him, and Hardison faded. And disappeared. He had no idea what just happened, why everything was black again, and where the hell the two of them had gone. Most of all, why he could still hear him speaking.

After some time he just gave up and put their voices somewhere behind him. The burning jacket, in fact, occupied the most of his thoughts.

.

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***

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The next thing Eliot felt was something cold and wet on his face, and he cursed and moved it away, but the thing was entwined in his hair and stopped him. Stopped him from doing _what_?

“Don’t move.” Parker’s voice was close to him and he could see her now – she was doing something with a branch and wet leaves around his face. She pulled it from his hair. She even _smiled_. “Here, we can go.”

Everything was dark - _yep, stormy evenings usually are, you moron_ – but he could clearly see bushes and trees all around them. He was standing; Hardison’s hand was around his waist, he was obviously directing his steps. He took one deep breath. The sweet scent of wet soil, torn leaves and rain in the air cleared his mind more than anything.

“Knock, knock… everybody home?” the hacker grinned, looking somewhere beside him. “If we knew that a threat to your hair would get you together, I would have told Parker to pull.”

“Ten inches to the left,” he said. His own voice sounded strange.

Hardison moved his head in the given direction. “Ah, there you are,” he grinned again when he focused. “Though, the other Eliot looked softer. Are you with us again? Can you count to five?”

“One broken finger, two broken fingers… Can you?”

“One duck by the pond, two ducks by the pond, three-”

“Stop it,” he growled, shaking off his hand, regaining his balance. He could stand, for now, though everything was swimming around him. “Where are we?”

“Hundred meters away from the fence – going through the woods to the road – Sophie will pick us up when she gets rid of something.”

“Sophie? How did you-?”

“Parker knew Nate’s number. Apparently, she knows all our numbers, though I’ll still check that to believe that someone actually _remembered_ numb-”

“And we are almost there,” Parker said quietly. “C’mon, just a few meters, and you can rest.”

Parker sounded… responsible and serious. He blinked, staring at her. Hardison chuckled. “Yep, whiskey is better than the happy pills.”

Nope, it was just fear; he was out of everything, though he obviously walked, and Hardison’s brain was clearly still bouncing around in his skull – she was the one that got them out and led them through the woods. Responsibility was a bitch, he knew that.

He shook his head to clear everything, which wasn’t such a bright idea, but it worked for now; at least he could walk, Hardison didn’t need to drag him along. Walking through the bushes and mud was worse than swimming, yet Parker was right. They passed the last five meters and they were on the road. He even managed to stop Hardison who was heading right toward the last tree, and turned him in the right direction.

“Now we wait,” Hardison cheerfully said, sitting on the wet grass, resting his head on the tree he almost hit, and they all followed him. Not cheerfully, of course. There was nothing cheerful in the awful rain; he was freezing already, and all three of them were shaking.

Hardison put Parker in the middle and pulled her closer into a hug, though it was doubtful how much heat he could provide, wet and cold as all of them were. Eliot thought about putting Hardison’s jacket over them, but looked at the dripping thing and changed his mind.

Jesus, he needed to rest – he felt his eyes closing, and although all the alarms in his head were warning him not to relax yet, he couldn’t fight it. The road and woods started to dance at first, then went to the left. Something tugged at his shoulder and the touch and the pain stirred him – he looked at Hardison. The hacker’s arm was over Parker’s back, and he reached for his jacket and kept him from falling.

“Not yet,” Hardison whispered over her head.

“Not yet what?” Parker mumbled from his chest.

“Nothing, Parker, just rest.” But it was too late, she lifted herself and buried her face in her hand. “You okay?” Hardison quietly asked, soft worry clearly sounding in his voice.

“My head hurts.” She sounded surprised, and Eliot suppressed a smile. “So that’s why Nate sometimes wears dark glasses after drinking,” she went on, turning slowly her head around them, looking at the woods with narrowed eyes. “Is Nate’s drinking a form of upgrade, instead of a change?” she asked Hardison.

“See what you have started?” Eliot hissed at the hacker who just shrugged. Before Parker could continue, he went on. “What the hell happened with that guy’s jacket?”

Hardison beamed. “I remembered he had my phone. I simply called my number, with the addition of 1701 – that triggers the self destruction. My phone is not a wise thing to leave in the enemy’s hands, you have to agree on that. I was hoping he kept it in his pants, but jacket worked well. Gave me a couple of seconds to get closer.”

It was damn quick thinking, Eliot had to admit. That scene played again in his mind, clear for the first time, and only then he realized that he was just standing there in front of the gun, doing nothing to stop him from pulling the trigger. No wonder Hardison was so mad – his strange reaction was much clearer now. He felt the hacker’s eyes on him, he clearly knew what was going on his mind right now.

“Do you have any explanation-”

“Knock it off, Hardison,” he snapped much harsher than he wanted, but that definitely wasn’t a thing he would discuss with anybody, ever. Hardison huffed and looked away.

Parker turned to him, still looking surprised. “Don’t sound so annoyed, we’re doing great.”

Doing great? Three exhausted, beaten, freezing and wet creatures, sitting in the mud because they were unable to walk. He opened his mouth to tell her everything he thought about that, but Hardison darted him a warning look, close to frowning. He sighed, gathered his thoughts that were running in all directions in his brain, and smiled. “Of course, Parker. We’re doing great.”

“Just imagine what would happened if you didn’t change from your pajamas yesterday,” she whispered.

Both of them stayed silent, trying to figure out what gruesome thing would happen if he wasn’t in sweatpants and a shirt, exchanging a pretty helpless look over her.

“It would be ruined in the rain and mud,” she explained slowly, as if talking to children. “De-stro-yed.”

“Y-yes, that would be… terrible,” he whispered back. “I would be devastated. Depressed for days. Months. I don’t know would I ever find pajamas so-“ Hardison cleared his throat, and he stopped.

Parker gave him a strange look, but Lucille appeared at the end of the road, and saved him from further babbling.

“Look at her,” Hardison cooed, watching Lucille. “Isn’t she a beauty?” He tilted his head, cross eyed, with an insanely gentle smile. Hardison simply _had to_ turn a simple concussion into something…weird. Eliot lowered his head, staring at the wet leaves; he started to dread the night.

If his luck held, he’d persuade Nate to leave him right here.

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***

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Nate was waiting for them, alive and without a scratch, at the outermost end of the ant hill. Sophie shooed her to drive when they went to pick up others. Florence thought to refuse at first – the damn van was huge – but then she saw Sophie’s eyes, flickering beside her to the woods, waiting to see the three of them.

It took just a few minutes to go around the complex, to the north, and she drove slowly so as not to miss them in the grayish remains of the day.

The fact that all three of them were alive when they got in the van only slightly lessened her guilt, especially when she saw the three wet, beaten, staggering creatures covered with mud and leaves, and Florence decided she had to apologize to all of them. Maybe not immediately, she added to herself when they all just stumbled into the van. Hardison sounded more drunk than Parker who was silent, but who without any word accepted Sophie’s cooing over her, and taking care of her. Nate handled Hardison pretty well; in the rearview mirror she caught him examining his eyes and vision. Eliot just crawled into the other part of the van with a gruff, “I’m fine, leave me alone,” and she didn’t see him anymore, he was right behind her seat.

Nate came to sit beside her soon after, leaving Sophie with the others, but he was sitting half turned to the back of the van, keeping an eye on them. She dared not ask him how they were doing. She drove carefully and under the speed limit, ignoring the urge to step on it and take them home as soon as possible. She sighed in relief when they left the woods and went onto the bigger road, but the sound of the quiet quarrel alarmed her again. Sophie’s and Parker’s whispers sounded like the real arguing. She hoped there wasn’t any new trouble coming their way.

“Pull over, Florence,” Nate said after a minute.

“ _Thank you_ ,” Parker hissed, sounding irritated. “I do know what I need, Sophie.”

“You need to close your eyes, that’s the way for nausea to pass, and not-”

“Move,” Parker said directly behind Florence’s shoulder. “I’ll drive.”

Florence looked at the shaking, wounded and drunk woman wrapped in a blanket, but Nate nodded, so she moved from the driver’s seat without a word.

She went to Hardison to tell him she was sorry, but she decided she would wait until he erased that crazy grin from his face; she doubted he could see her clearly because his head was slightly tilted as if he was trying to see things from a lower angle. His eyes seemed to roll around with every blink and every move.

She gathered all her courage and went to sit on the floor by Eliot, ready for pissed off growling. It was better to go through that in the van, it would be quick, if not painless, than in the apartment.

Just when she sat, she realized that only from the corner behind driver’s seat could he control both side doors and back doors at the same time. Yet, he didn’t look like he was able to move, much less to do something with the doors. He was resting his head on his raised knees, with wet hair that was still dripping, with a cut above his eyebrow that was still bleeding. He gave no sign he noticed she sat close by, and she shot a helpless glance at Sophie. She just nodded in return. _Keep him awake_.

“Are you okay?” she whispered, momentarily wanting to slam her head into the seat. She doubted she could ask a dumber question.

“Fine,” he said, not moving. That clearly meant _go away and leave me alone with stupid questions_ , but she stayed.

“Look…” she started, gathered all her courage, and went on. “There’s something I need to tell you.”

When he finally looked at her, she had to hide her surprise – she expected an annoyed and pissed off glare, but she got only a tired one. It was more than tired, she realized, seeing the effort he put into that simple move. He was so exhausted that the border between being awake, and floating off somewhere was smudged and very wide. There wasn’t any intensity or watchfulness in his eyes, they were almost soft, and she finally saw how his face looked without that constant edge that sharpened his features. It was a shame that he had to get to this state to lose that tension.

“I’m sorry about this,” she said before she lost all her courage. He watched her for a few seconds, and she saw he was trying to concentrate and figure out what was she talking about. She shouldn’t have bothered him with this, damn… but it was too late now. “You were in this because of me,” she explained quietly.

His eyes changed. She couldn’t unravel what in her words was the cause of his smile, but it was a soft, slow smile, so untypical of him that she was certain he must have been hit in the head, hard, more than once.

“When decisions are made… the consequences of the actions are no longer on the initiator,” he whispered slowly. “When we took the job, that was it. _Our_ job. _Our_ mistakes.”

“It’s not that simple,” she said.

“But it is,” his voice went lower. “There’s nothing to feel guilty for. Guilt destroys and ruins... knock it off. Nobody’s been killed, we’re okay. Focus on that.”

He couldn’t _mean_ that. She watched him, trying to see behind his words, but there wasn’t anything hidden.

“What doesn’t kill you, makes you stronger?” she tried a smile, and it came easier than she thought.

He flinched visibly as if she had poked something that hurt, and his smile faded. “No, that’s bullshit. What doesn’t kill you leaves you broken, defeated, and in pieces,” he whispered. “What doesn’t kill you takes all your strength, sometimes your mind, and your heart… and if you’re lucky, it leaves you with just enough will to keep breathing. Enough to try to get up and rebuild all that shit from the scratch.” He lowered his head again. “Sorry. That saying is one of the few that make my blood boil,” he finished quietly. “It’s so fucking… ignorant.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” she said lightly. “You just showed me it’s completely true.”

He looked at her again.

“I’ve never heard a better explanation of strength before,” she smiled gently.

His eyes moved over her face and flew over her clothes, for a moment becoming even softer. She felt like a child who thought she had said something extremely clever, and the grown up before her was deciding if he should just nod and smile or tell her she was wrong– and yet, she knew she was right.

She only wanted to know what he was looking for when he watched her. What he saw. For his eyes flashed with something akin to sorrow.

“You know nothing about strength,” he breathed finally, a strange tone in his voice. He reached with his hand and stopped just before he touched her face. His fingers were trembling and ice cold, yet the gesture was incredibly gentle, just a feather light touch that lasted a second. As if he was checking to see if she was real and really here. “And you shouldn’t know. Ever,” he finished so quietly that she barely heard him.

“Why?” she whispered too, not knowing why she felt a normal voice would be wrong.

He shook his head, and she knew she wouldn’t get an answer. He wasn’t able to speak anymore, merely looking at her was draining his strength.

The jacket he wore, Hardison’s, was wet and torn apart, and she remembered the coldness of his hand; he must have been freezing. She quickly took off her jacket but stopped before she put it over his shoulders. “Uhm, you’re not allergic to avocado or shea butter, are you?”

That got her one more smile, this time more Eliot–like. _And when exactly did she started cataloging his types of smiles_? “No, ma’am,” he drawled. “It smells nice.”

“Good,” she said sternly, not letting her smile escape, and draped the jacket around him.

Strange, but she was grateful for the exhaustion that cracked his shield, and made this moment possible. She doubted he would allow himself this tenderness if he was able to keep his composure up.

He bowed his head again but she stayed beside him, to be one more source of heat, though not touching him. They had at least one hour to drive.

Enough time to think about all the possible reasons why his eyes, when he smiled touching her face, were so damn sad.

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***

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The last fifteen minutes of the drive was maybe the longest in her life. Sophie was driving again, she chased Parker to curl up in the passenger’s seat. Hardison lost that manic grin and was only left with the headache, dozing in and out, and Eliot stopped replying to Nate’s questions when they reached city traffic.

They needed dry clothes, the heater in the apartment set to the maximum, and Betsy. Definitely Betsy – she would take care of everything.

When Sophie finally stopped Lucille as close to the back doors as she could, Florence sprung to her feet. “I’ll go first and prepare everything,” she said to Nate. He could think of how to move all of them in the same direction.

She opened the back door and jumped out, happy that the rain had finally stopped, but she froze in the middle of the first step when a man simply materialized in front of her. Tall, in a suit, and with pissed off eyes. She bit back a scream; no no no, they had just escaped one group, they couldn’t, simply _couldn’t_ fight another.

 _It was all her fault already_.

She slammed the door of the van behind her. “They are here! Run!”

She would scream, and try to run to McRory’s, that would save her - but the door burst open, barely missing her back, and slammed into the wall.

Eliot was standing beside her in less than a second.

She squeaked and squinted, expecting a fight, but he was looking at _her_.

She opened her eyes. Something was strange here.

“And what the fuck do ya think ya’ doin’?” he snarled at _her_. She just pointed at the mobster, unable to find appropriate words for _kill it before it shoots_.

“That was my question to you,” the mobster snarled too.

“Get in line,” Eliot was still looking at her while responding. “You,” he whispered. “Never, ever, do something stupid like this – or we’ll have to have a serious talk.”

“Stop scaring her, Eliot,” Nate jumped from the van. “Hello, Patrick. Any reason to be standing there waiting and fuming?”

Okay, this wasn’t a mobster, obviously. _But it could have been_. She opened her mouth to explain that and abruptly changed her mind, hit by Eliot’s mad eyes. That man was worse than a bipolar with his change of moods, for god’s sake! Just when she thought that normal communication was possible, he was once again turned into a snarling... something.

“Cora called me; someone reported suspicious people in the building, armed – she found a bottle in the corridor and your doors open, nobody inside. She knew he wasn’t yet allowed to leave-”

“Wasn’t. Allowed,” Eliot rolled his eyes, shot one more nasty stare at her, and marched beside them into the building.

Nate sighed. “Go after him, he won’t get far,” he said to Patrick who looked at the rest of the team, wet, beaten, limping, Hardison running directly into the door and slamming into them, and just shook his head, going after Eliot.

Okay, things were back in normal. She knew it was too good to last for long. Florence took the end of the line, and decided to stay close to Sophie.

 

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	20. Chapter 20

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***

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Eliot simply couldn’t follow the fucking mess all around him, people stuttering, talking, going to and fro, the maddening sound of a hairdryer, and someone who was pushing dry clothes into his face. He remembered, vaguely, that he was in the bathroom at one point, and that Nate was there too. He probably changed. He couldn’t be sure. The only thing he remembered was the too loud clang of the garbage can where Nate threw the wet clothes, and how that sound sent a bolt of pain through his head.

The next thing he remembered were distorted images of Bonnano and Nate carrying huge things, and it took fifteen minutes before he figured out those were the things from the apartment near Mass Gen – they put all of that in one room and now they were assembling two beds.

He wanted to hear what they were saying after that, sitting at the table, but he was – and he had no idea when and how – in the bed and too far away to hear them.

He heard, however, Sophie who was sitting on his bed, staring directly at his eyes, and talking. Cool. He hoped she wouldn’t ask of him to repeat what she said. Her voice had a soothing, gentle tone that didn’t help him to stay focused, she was intentionally lulling him. Of course he shook it off and stayed awake, so she gave up and left. Only after that he remembered that he _wanted_ to pass out, and that he should’ve let her keep talking.

When Sophie disappeared, Florence took over, and he put a little more effort into listening, trying not to be rude and scary – why did everybody keep saying he was scaring her, anyway?  He had no clue what she was trying to say, but he smiled nevertheless and nodded, just in case. She frowned and hissed at him, throwing a towel on the bed – damn, she was incredibly cute when she was pissed off - his nodding obviously was the wrong answer to whatever question. She fired off quick staccato words before she turned on her heel and went away, and just then he realized that she had just _lectured_ him. About something. That was cool, too. _And_ cute.

When he thought he would be able to close his eyes, finally, Sophie appeared again, then Parker after her, and he was only able to stare at the thief who was pointing her finger at him. Her speech sounded like someone reading a long grocery list, said in a monotone, slow voice. This wasn’t soothing, or a lecture. This was an accusation of some sort. He caught a few numbers, minutes and days in it, but that was all.

And for the shit to be complete, Betsy materialized out of nowhere after all of them, with her creepy smile and poked at every single new bruise he had. She even found ones he didn't notice before, pressing at every fucking bone in his body, mercilessly, spiced with sarcastic explanations – oh yes, he simply adored her medical explanations, whether he understood them or not. Whining wouldn’t stop her, and he seriously contemplated squeaking – that would surely shock her, and maybe she would. fucking. stop. poking. him.

Why the hell were all the women in his life so damn irritating?

A gasp, a hiss, a giggle and a smirk – all at the same time.  Only then did he become aware that he'd said that out loud.

“Maybe the common denominator is the one who should be asked.” Betsy stabbed him with a needle, and he looked at his arm. _Fuck, not again_. He had a canula in his vein, and he traced it to a pole and hanging bag… but even before he could form a question, he knew it wasn’t morphine.

“Elephant tranquilizer? _Again_?” Two milliliters, set on a slow flow, half an hour drip rate, added a memory in his head. How he could calculate the exact amount of drug, but couldn’t understand a word they were saying? His brain was a scary place.

“I couldn’t agree more.” Betsy’s smile was devilish now, and he closed his mouth, and forbid himself to think about anything.

That happened to be not so hard a task to perform, because Betsy’s smile dissolved into nothing and darkness.

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***

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Betsy was furious when she found out, after a few questions, that none of them ate anything for an entire day, and though Hardison tried to explain everything that led to that, it was of no use. Florence took over and ordered a pizza.

The mess was more or less over, everybody was dry and taken care of – Parker’s leg needed stitches and thorough cleansing, and Betsy spent  more than half an hour with her in the bathroom, and then shooed her into the bed with pizza that arrived in the meantime.

Nate decided they would all stay in the apartment, and Florence almost asked him if Betsy and Bonnano would stay too – this gang was clearly well connected. She guessed that Bonnano and Betsy knew each other just by watching their body language and one quick exchange.

Betsy left orders – Florence had the first shift and her task was to wake Hardison every hour and ask him a few simple questions. His concussion wasn’t serious, but the headache was growing stronger and his double vision wasn’t improving. Eliot should be left alone until he woke up. The nurse gave him a strong muscle relaxant and painkillers, stated that he had nothing broken or fractured, and ordered her to feed him first thing when he woke up.

Fuck, no, that was ridiculous.

“Sophie is a better choice, I’ll tell her to-”

“No, you’ll do it. He would chase her away, but he’ll be polite with you.”

“He growls at me,” she stated cautiously.

“He growls at everybody.” Betsy smiled. “Just ignore that. Or growl back.”

Betsy left after that, and Bonnano went with her, so Florence had enough time to think about everything. After they ate, she kept Nate company at the dining table while Sophie was going from bed to bed, unable to sit and rest. The grifter was trying to restrain her urge to coo over all of them but with little success, and Florence couldn’t understand how the woman could be so cold and steady when in trouble, and so unstrung afterward, when everything seemed to be fine.

That part, ‘seemed to be fine’, somehow wasn’t convincing, she thought when she realized that Nate, after a short talk with Bonnano, hadn’t said a single word.

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***

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Sophie left late in the evening, after she realized that she would only hinder their rest if she stayed too long. It was possible that Betsy gave something to Hardison and Parker too, because Hardison was out, and Parker kept herself awake only with cartoons, and she was losing that battle rapidly. Florence noticed that the grifter’s eyes were more on Nate than the rest of the team for the last hour of her stay.

Florence took her laptop to the dining table, near Hardison’s, smiling when she remembered all the trouble he went through to squint at the screen. With everything around him double and moving, he had to ask her to help him set up the cameras and surveillance program again, and he guided her through all the steps. The principle was the same as it was on her peephole camera, though she got only a glimpse of its complexity.

She had just started to go through the emails that had been waiting for an entire day, when her phone rang. She quickly grabbed it and checked the caller ID.

“It’s Brewer!” she whispered to Nate.

“Put him on speakerphone, but lower the sound.”

“Yes, Mr. Brewer,” she whispered, than continued a little stronger, putting the phone on the table between her and Nate. “Florence here.”

“I’m sorry to call you so late in the evening, but I told you I would call you today.”  His voice was hesitant, and she knew, exactly, what he would say.

She lowered her hands from the table and clutched herself. “You don’t sound like the bearer of good news, Mr. Brewer,” she stated lightly.

“No, I’m afraid I’m not,” he sighed and paused. “You see… we had some suspicions about Michael Winslow's business contracts, we checked everything because of his recent accusations, and the Board of Directors discussed this matter for an entire evening… problem is, and you know I have to work in the interests of the company, those shows Michael prepared to replace M7 are very successful.”

She ignored the sting of anger burning deep in her side, and smiled. “Of course they are successful, low life humans are enjoying that crap… but you told us, many, many times, that your house provides drama and intelligent shows for intelligent people. You’re telling me you’re going into cheap programming for uneducated housewives with nine children and bleached hair!?” As her voice grew stronger, Nate’s hand rested on her forearm, warning her.

“Well, global crisis is not just knocking on our door, Florence, it’s already in the house, digging in the cellar. We had to cut our budget for this year, and with about one million dollars for one of your episodes, we are seven million short.”

“Unless you cut that crap, and the money you wanted to invest in them, put it into my show, which would give you better ratings than any other show you have, and you know that. You know what Winslow did and how he did everything to lower my ratings – and you also know we would be close to 5 million viewers if the show was treated properly.” When Nate quickly tapped her hand, she realized she wasn’t supposed to know what exactly Winslow did, but Brewer didn’t notice anything.

“What ifs are useless now, Florence.” Brewer sounded tired, but firm. “I was willing to give it another chance, to see how it would go, but I’m not only one here… I was outnumbered.”

“But your word is final.”

“It is… I could put a veto on their voting, but that is not a good move in a business relationship. I’m afraid my decision is final. It won’t be official yet, I’ll declare the cancellation on the People’s Voice Awards, I have a little speech in the ceremony. I just wanted you to know first. I would appreciate if you wouldn’t tell anyone yet, until it’s official.”

She took one long, long breath, trying to exhale all the anger storming in her chest. “I understand.” When she spoke, her voice was controlled and steady. “Thank you for letting me know. I appreciate that.”

She ended the call and just stared at the phone, feeling Nate’s eyes on her.

“So…”she started after almost a minute of an empty mind, of all her thoughts frozen. “The two main problems of this shit I brought to your doorstep, literally, the mobsters who are trying to kill me, and the cancellation of my show, both things that we believed were solved today, came back and just bit our heads off.”

Nate said nothing so she raised her head to look at him. “We thought that putting Winslow behind bars would end mobster’s threats to my life,” she said slowly. “And immediately after that, the same mobsters took two of you and tried to kill them. We also thought that putting suspicion in Brewer's head would result in him making the right decision. And he canceled my show, definitely, the same day. _Everything_ we did failed. Why don’t you look upset?”

He poured whiskey from the bottle into two glasses, and pushed one to her, then smiled. “That’s called  Plan A,” he said calmly.

“And…?”

“And the Plan A usually falls apart. I look at it as a preparation of the ground and feeling a pulse of the opponent.”

“So, you’re telling me that this is not over, there’s still something you can do?”

“We’ll see everything tomorrow.”

She sighed and rubbed her forehead. “Nate, we can’t stop these mobsters.” She didn’t want to sound so desperate, but she couldn’t hide the tremble in her voice. “If Winslow’s arrest didn’t stop them, what would? And when Brewer says his final word, that’s it, no more negotiating.  It’s over, do you understand that? I’ll go somewhere else, and ask for police protection, or go to New Zealand and join Jethro, but you’re here  – you’re in the same danger because of me, the three of them were almost killed, you’re all too deeply involved in this now and I simply don’t know how to-”

“Shhhh,” he smiled again, cutting off her speeding words. “Do you trust me, Florence?”

 _Oh. Nasty question_. She searched his face, those calm serious features. “I don’t know if I trust you, or  if I simply _want_ to trust you,” she murmured. “But hell, yes, I do. You told me to leave the van when we were going to get them.”

“And you stayed,” he nodded, swirling the glass in his fingers. He stayed silent, studying her face for a moment. “You’re not quite aware of what we are capable of,” he said cautiously, with a slight hesitation. “And we are now… motivated.”

She said nothing, remembering something dark in his eyes that she had noticed in the van, suddenly feeling uneasy. And something also told her that this man might be the only one that she should be scared of. She twisted her mouth into a smile, knowing very well that he could read her every single thought; _damn mind-reading mutants, every one of them_. He _was_ reading her, because he smiled and hoisted himself up, taking the bottle.

“Try not to worry too much, until we decide what to do next. Okay?”

“You’ll be able to sleep?”

“Three B’s – a book, a bottle and a bed,” he smiled, sweeping the room with his eyes. Something strange flickered in them while he looked at the three sleeping people, but in the dim light she couldn’t decipher what emotion went over his face. He stirred and looked at her again. “You’ll manage? Wake me up to take over when you've had enough.”

“I’ll be busy, don’t worry. Emails, blog, updates, working with my notes… I have plenty of work to do, and I have to catch up with everything.”

He just nodded and left, leaving her alone in the silence.

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***

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She hated this feeling of utter misery. It was difficult to write an email to Jethro, and with cheerful words describe to him how her meetings went, how boring the two last days had been, and how nothing important happened.

She checked the time and went to see Hardison, nudging him slightly.

“Still headache, still double,” he murmured turning on the other side. “But the bed stopped rolling. That’s an improvement.”

He fell back asleep before she could answer, so she just smiled and let him alone.

How, for god’s sake, could Nate think they would continue with their job, she asked herself while looking the three beds – the apartment looked like a battlefield hospital. Three of five was out of commission, for who knows how long. Nate and Sophie couldn’t fight Knudsen and all of Dvorak Security, not to the mention numerous mobsters that Don Lazzara would send if he saw his nephew threatened. Yes, she was with them as a third, but she was useless, all her knowledge about violent and action stuff was fucking theoretical – and she knew they were many steps ahead of her even on that field.

She mourned her show – but the other threat was far more dangerous. If M7 wasn’t renewed, it would be shame, but that was all – yet, if they didn’t resolve that mobster threat, their lives would be in danger. She could simply go to New Zealand to Jethro – she intended to do so during the hiatus between seasons, right after the PVA – but they would stay here, in the apartment that was already marked as a target, never safe. Because they protected her.

She put away all correspondence. Nate’s whiskey warmed her, and she relaxed, letting her thoughts flow around the subject of mobsters, as if they were a stubborn plot twist that didn’t bend to her will. Thinking about writing led to shooting, shooting led to recording, and recording led to… Hardison’s laptop.

She straightened herself up and opened her eyes, alert.

Surveillance cameras must have caught the mobsters in the hall, going into the apartment, and taking two prisoners out of it – if they weren’t masked, their faces should be visible. Sooner or later Nate would have to admit they were helpless, and when it finally came time to talk to the police, recorded evidence could be crucial. They could use that recording and prove that Dvorak Security attacked decent citizens in their building. Cora’s call to Bonnano would confirm that. She quickly put a headset on and went through all the steps she remembered, improvising when it came to finding the recorded data, and playing it, but it only took a few minutes before she learned how to start it.

Remembering the time when Parker called Nate, she went back a little, and jumped into the feed right at the moment when Eliot went into the corridor.

Fuck, she shouldn’t… this looked like a confidant conversation – she stayed motionless with fingers frozen above the keyboard, unable to decide what to do, glancing to the beds spread all over the room to check if they  were still sleeping. She didn’t know how to move the feed in small amounts of time, and if she skipped this, she would miss the mobsters. This was a clear intrusion of privacy...

But she couldn’t stop, she stared at the feed, listening to every word without breathing.

Jesus.

When the mobsters finally came, she was so stunned that she almost missed their faces. All four of them were visible and clear, she even knew two of them, she saw them on shooting locations a couple of times.

 _Estrella_. She vaguely remembered that name from the news last week, and she quietly turned the feed off, put the regular real time recording back on the screen, and went to her laptop to attack Google.

All the articles she found agreed on one thing: this was a massacre unheard of in Boston. Nine dead, seventeen wounded, an ecological threat still present. Something happened with the chlorine tanks at the pools, the chemicals were still too high. Five men were suffering from gunshot wounds _and_ severe chlorine poisoning. And they were in the middle of that place while that was happening. After checking the exact time, she figured out that it had happened only one hour before they brought Eliot into the apartment, caught on her peephole camera.

She couldn’t sit peacefully, so she started to pace the room, barefoot and silent, connections clicking unstoppably into place. Everything that Nate said and Sophie explained formed into a pretty clear route through That Night. Eliot sent the Mexicans after the Chileans and that culminated into the massacre at Estrella; he sent the Italians after the Chileans, and that made the Boston night full of machine gun fights and fires. The rest of the team was chasing him through the entire town, the whole night, and they finally caught up with him in Estrella, not before.

She tiptoed to his bed, and peeked behind the shelf, watching the man who had started all that – for now she knew, without any doubt, that every single fight that night was his doing. No wonder he had nightmares.

Was this any rest at all? He looked as if he was sleeping normally, relaxed, but he was drugged. His hair was dry by now, and it was curly, she noticed it; the dimmed lights didn’t allow her to see anything else. And she shouldn’t be watching him at all, she reminded herself sternly.

She had only been staring at him for five seconds when he stirred in his sleep, and she retreated to the dining table in small quick steps, feeling ridiculous, cursing breathlessly. She was sure he felt someone watching him, even on the painkillers and other shit that Betsy gave him.

Checking the time showed her it was only midnight, so she sighed, went once more to wake up Hardison, and returned to her emails, trying to dig herself as deep as she could, to stop thinking about, well, everything.

She had almost succeeded when she sensed a presence and then Eliot slowly lowered himself into the chair.

“Time?” he said shortly.

“Midnight.”  She observed him, realizing he had no idea what woke him up, if this state could be called being awake… he was trying to focus and gather himself, without any visible result.

The funny thing was, sitting in the middle of the night with a drugged and disoriented angel of destruction brought no fear. She had been much more relaxed with them, yet she didn’t lose all caution, so she slowly, very slowly got up. She went into the kitchen and brought one slice pizza, putting it on the table in front of him.

“Betsy said you have to eat,” she explained and almost smiled when he rubbed his eyes with a clumsy, half-asleep move.  It was… incredibly cute. Except for the part where he winced when he touched the bruise beneath his eye, a new one. She knew enough not to be fooled by that clumsiness – she remembered his jumping out of van, in only one second going from half conscious to deadly alert.

For some time he just stared at the pizza, and she let him have that silence, not watching him, typing her emails.

“Are you sure you should be awake?”she asked when he turned to look over the room.

“No. But I can’t sleep now. Maybe later. Maybe…” he stopped, watching his fingers, seemingly fascinated by their slow moves. “What was that towel stuff, before?” he suddenly asked and she needed a few seconds before she remembered.

“Nah, nothing important. Sophie sent me to bring you… you had no idea what was I saying, right?” She waited until he nodded, then continued. “And what was that yelling and snarling at me down on the street about?”

Now was his turn to try to remember – she knew it wasn’t fair to use his unfocused state, but their talk in the van showed her how rare and precious the moments without all of his shields were.  This one seemed to be another chance to see him, the real Eliot, not that strange guardian role he played.

“It was stupid, reckless, dangerous, completely useless and-” he struggled for more words but he gave up. “Mostly stupid. You’re a client. Clients don’t jump on mobsters while the team is two meters away. If that wasn’t Patrick, you would be dead in two seconds. Did I mention reckless? And dangerous?”

“And completely useless. Yes, you did.” She studied him, noticing the flicker of anger that memory brought: it would be better to change the subject. “This is by far the weirdest apology I’ve ever heard.”

“I wasn’t apol-”

“You did. You explained. That’s all I need. I need to understand what’s going on, then I can accept everything.” She waited, but the hint was clearly too light to catch, he didn’t react. After a few moments he carefully touched the band aid above his eyebrow, and winced again.

She waited more. “I’m a sucker for information,” she continued lightly, taking the last sip of whiskey. “That’s research stuff – with enough data, you can do anything, understand anything. Being kept in the dark is the worst thing for me.”

He poked the cold pizza with one finger, looking at it with a tilted head.

She could bet his eyes couldn’t be duller than this, and she stopped an irritated sigh; he was playing her.

“You took that whiskey, or did Nate pour it for you?” he suddenly asked.

“Nate. Why?”

His eyes were sharp again in less than a second. “What happened while we slept?”

“Brewer canceled M7. It’s official now, yet not announced. What does Nate’s whiskey-” she fell silent, watching him destroying all the combined effects of the relaxants and painkillers, clearing his mind almost visibly.

“Nate said that was just Plan A,” she said wearily, expecting who knew what amount of rage again, but he smiled.

“ _That_ ’s the worrying part,” he said softly, then stood up with slow, stiff moves. He looked beaten to the bone, unable to straighten up.

 _What the hell happened in that slaughterhouse_? How did they escape from ten armed killers? The few short sentences that Hardison provided clearly were enough for Nate, he didn’t ask more, but she didn’t get it. Asking Eliot now didn’t sound like a good idea, so she just waited while he inspected the room again. She would press Hardison tomorrow.

“We are way behind on watching your episodes.” It wasn’t what she expected as a result of his thinking. “Do you have something important to do now? Can you watch it with me?

“Only waking up Hardison. But you shouldn’t – you should-”

“We are still on the Season Two. Three episodes now, and the rest in the morning, after sleep, okay?”

“But why?”

He turned to her again, hesitating. “Nate wanted me to do it. His plans are mostly indescribable until executed, and they're all simmering at the same time, in different stages… watching your show is part of one of them.”

“And you didn’t ask why it’s important?”

“No.”

She understood. She had one director whom she trusted without any questions, any explanations – she could give him a script and be sure he would shoot it exactly how she wanted it.

“I won’t have time for the podcasts, commentaries and all the additions on the discs, so I’ll need you to talk about it – you have to tell me everything that comes to your mind. You have to… to…”

“You want me to babble?” she offered helpfully.

A quickly suppressed grin crinkled his eyes. “Exactly. But quietly, we don’t want to wake ‘em up.”

He pulled up the episode they stopped watching in the middle and Florence brought the pizza and Hardison’s strange juice, trying not to think that the sofa in front of the screens was actually her bed now, with blankets and pillows. Orion, as standard equipment, volunteered to help them with the pizza, and the first fifteen minutes was less watching and commenting, and more of a united effort to keep his little paws away from crust.

She didn’t know what Nate wanted with this, and how he knew two days ago that it would be necessary, but she surely knew she wouldn’t get any explanation even if she asked him. Instead of worrying further, she just relaxed, whispering about all the funny things, problems and tricks of TV show business. She avoided looking at Eliot, still not sure if she would reveal somehow that she knew about his nightmares and all that talk with Hardison. Those people were dangerously precise at reading everything she tried to hide, but she made peace with herself.  She did know something she shouldn’t have known… but at the same time, they knew her much more than she liked.

Reciprocity. She could live with that.

She put aside all the fears that tomorrow would wake up again and erased nine dead and seventeen wounded in _Estrella_ from her mind. She also tried to ignore that she was sitting next to a man who’s presence was disturbing her to the point of being aware of his every move, every breath. She kept her eyes on the screen.

Some tasks were harder than others.

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	21. Chapter 21

 

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***

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An explosion woke him up, but he didn’t jump or open his eyes, he just remained still with his eyes closed. Yet, he couldn’t stop the one sharp inhale, his racing heartbeat needed more air. He panicked for a moment, not knowing where he was and what exploded, which fucking night this was, but before he could sink into fear again, a quiet voice penetrated through the gunshots echoing in his mind.

“Good morning, Eliot.”

Parker’s voice. He relaxed instantly.

“Five in the morning, no explosions, just thunder somewhere near. Everybody’s sleeping but I can’t, my head hurts,” she continued quietly. “I’m waking Hardison up every hour, and I’ll  wake up Florence soon to take over again. Go back to sleep.”

He opened his eyes and looked at the thief sitting on the table above him, swinging her legs. Talking. _Alive_.

“George is going to sulk for days,” he said.

“Ah,” she frowned. “You’re right. Good morning, George. Good morning Orion.”

He lifted himself to sit, cursing silently when that simple move stirred all the different pains scattered all over, and discovered the cat at the bottom of the bed. One piece of pizza between his paws and a victorious glare.

“We need to find something to occupy him,” he murmured, looking around. The first light of dawn was pale and barely visible, and only a small light in the kitchen gave the dark shadows a yellow tint.

“I’ll pass that suggestion on to Nate. He’ll know what to do.”

“What are you doing?”

“Counting.”

“What-” He stopped, but too late.

“Minutes and hours. I had to calculate yesterday’s hours into Betsy’s order of twenty three point five hours of rest per day, and added to the previous amount, you’re now at minus three weeks and two days. I’ll have to talk to her. You’re _downgrading_.”

“You know she said that just because – you can’t just – Parker, stop taking everything so damn literally – Jesus.” Another lightening strike showed him her grin, and he seriously thought she was just mocking him, but with Parker both was possible at the same time. “Just go to sleep, I’ll take over now.”

“No way. That would be three weeks, two days and at least two hours-”

“Okay, okay, just go away.”

“Good night,” she beamed at him and walked away, leaving him to exchange glances with the cat. Orion chewed his breakfast, leaving crumbs on the blanket.

Eliot sighed and lowered himself into the pillows again, trying to calm down enough to sleep again.

Strange, but the gunshots were gone.

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***

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“What the fuck have you done?!”

Though Hardison’s wailing was the level of a whisper, it penetrated the double pillow barrier that Florence had on her head for the last fifteen minutes of their irritating chatting, and she threw them both in the air and jumped out of the bed ready to start killing.

“Why aren’t you all drugged and quiet?” she hissed at the three of them; Eliot was sitting at the dining table with lots of huge white cups and a plant in front of him, Parker was hanging upside down from the winding stairs by one leg, holding a bag of ice on her head, and Hardison was walking to and fro in front of the table, keeping one hand over one eye, and squinting with the other.

“We were quiet, until he started destroying office equipment!” Hardison pointed an accusing finger at the table, receiving a glare from behind the cups.

Well, fuck decency; Parker was wearing Nate’s old pajamas too, so she could walk around in hers. Florence went to see what the cause of Hardison’s consternation was.

All the white cups had the _Leverage Consulting & Associates_ logo on them, as well as the similar white vase with the plant, except that every single _Associates_ on them was scratched out with thick black marker pen, and replaced with IDIOTS, in huge letters.

“I’m not destroying office equipment,” Eliot snarled at the hacker. “I’m _upgrading_ it.”

Parker’s giggle sounded drunker now than in the middle of yesterday’s mess. Hardison hissed a curse and grabbed the plant.

“Okay, I have a hostage now. Put away the pen, and back away from the cups, now!”

Florence would run away in panic any other time, having seen Eliot’s slow getting up, if she hadn't learned when their arguing was serious, and when they were just bickering. She went closer.

“I could drop him,” Hardison warned, taking one step back. He held the vase with both hands – and Florence noticed how careful he actually was not to drop it – so he shut his eyes because he couldn’t keep his hand on the one eye any longer.

Eliot’s expression was a mixture of annoyance and a painful smile. “If one leaf falls off of him, Hardison, one single leaf…”

“Wait, wait, wait…” Florence took the vase from Hardison. “What time is it, anyway?”

“Morning.” Eliot took the plant from her before Hardison focused enough to reach for it again. “And he hasn’t stop talking since he woke up.”

“I noticed that.” For the first time in her life, her voice sounded like a snarl, and she seriously thought about what a bad influence those people were. “Where’re Nate and Sophie?”

“Sophie will come soon, and Nate sneaked out half an hour ago,” Parker reported. “He’s probably at McRory’s, drinking. I told him that we have to think of something funny for Orion – maybe that was the trigger. He rolled his eyes and just stormed out.” Parker straightened herself and climbed down, coming to the table with careful, slow steps, squinting at the sun coming from the window. “I noticed a bag full of almonds in the kitchen,” she continued when she sat. “If nobody wants them, maybe we can just empty it on the floor and let the cat slide through-”

“Nope. Stay away from that,” Eliot said before she could finish. “And stop watching cartoons, you’re _downgrading_.”

“Blergh,” Hardison went to lower the shades and Florence was grateful for that, feeling the first signs of a headache.

“I’m bored,” Parker stated, frowning. She put the bag of ice on the top of her head and just let it sit there.

In just one second, the bickering was forgotten, and the two men exchanged worried glances.

“We’ll continue watching the episodes,” Eliot said carefully. “You can join us, if you don’t mind jumping into the third season.”

“The third?” Florence asked. They were in the middle of the second around three in the morning. Did he continue to watch it while she was sleeping, from her _bed_?

“I was awake two times during the night, so I put the DVD in my laptop,” Eliot nodded to the table near his bed.

“I was thinking about the laptop and that Farmville thingy,” Hardison said, covering one eye again and sitting at the table. “I think Betsy is using it as surveillance. Some sort of twisted nanny camera – she can monitor your crops, time of growing, and when, exactly, you do things. I wouldn’t be surprised if she knew every step-”

“Hardison, I’m the one who is paranoid, stop with the-”

“When Betsy is in question, no one can be paranoid enough. Mark my words, one day, that will prove to be a fatal mistake, and it will be used against you. Just wait and see. You go watch it, I can’t…I’ll try to find some info on our new sand excavating friends – though I have no idea how. I should make a black patch for one eye, it’s the only way not to see double – and you all can be my Avengers, heh,” he grinned at the very thought of it. “You would be a perfect Hulk if you weren’t _permanently_ in rage mode… so you can be Thor. Not so bright, rude and violent, and obsessed with your hair. Parker can be-”

“Will you shut the fuck up? My hair is none of your busin-”

“Rude.”

“Will you, _please_ , shut the fuck up?”

Hardison grinned at his menacing tone. “Go, go, have fun watching… I’ll just sit here, crawling out of my skin, unable to type, to do my research, to do _anything._ ”

Florence seriously thought about hyperventilation.

“Did you seen it?” Hardison continued cheerfully.

“See what?” Eliot growled.

“Your brain, man. You just rolled your eyes so high you must have seen it. Is there an alien in it? A crop-growing, laptop-typing little green alien-”

“That’s it,” Eliot turned on his heel and stormed away with the plant, followed by Orion who didn’t take his eyes from it. He put the vase on the coffee table by the sofa, and darted one warning glance to the cat that peeked over the sofa in hunter mode.

Florence suddenly became aware that they all would watch it, again, and quickly went through all the episodes in her mind, trying to find any dangerous trigger.

She missed Sophie. _A lot._

Parker was nervously tapping her wounded leg, as if trying to speed its recovery, Hardison was poking at the laptop with one finger and a painful grimace, and Eliot was radiating annoyance – they clearly weren’t used to immobility. No wonder Nate ran.

“You’ll be glad to hear that the main theme of the Season Three is Patience,” she said sweetly, and went into the bathroom.

This was going to be a very long morning.

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***

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Four episodes, three bowls of popcorn, and two more arguments later, Eliot said he had enough of watching. Sophie had arrived in the meantime and joined them, and both she and Parker continued with one more episode.

Florence used the fact that Eliot wasn’t watching, so there was no need for her comments, and joined Hardison who was still doing something on the laptop, struggling with a headache and his vision.

She wanted to ask him about the slaughterhouse, but Eliot was walking all around the room, from window to window, unable to stay still. If that was rest and recovery, he was doing it wrong – Betsy strictly said he should be in the bed.

Restless, that was the right word. It seemed that nobody paid any attention to his mood, and only she was getting nervous because of it.

“So, besides hacking, you fight too?” she asked Hardison, pointing at his head, when she calculated Eliot was at the farthest part of the room, by two windows that looked on McRory’s entrance.

Hardison sighed, glancing somewhere beside her. “Nah… yes, I fought one giant mobster. Bloodthirsty. Bat shit crazy and _illogical_.”

The strange sound of his last word warned her even before Eliot said anything.

“Just tell her, Hardison,” he said, only a few steps behind her. He pulled up a chair and sat at the table with them. Sophie went to the kitchen but stopped by the table as well, and Florence said goodbye to a private conversation with Hardison.

“Instead of asking me nicely to pretend to be knocked out, he, well, knocked me out for real.”

Eliot darted him a lazy smile. “As soon as we see your ability to pretend to be unconscious when hit by a metal pole, or stabbed with a knife, I'll willing to admit my mistake. We can try it now if you want, and practice daily.”

“It seems it’s more dangerous to be your ally than your enemy,” she said lightly, but she erased her smile when she met his eyes, all traces of warmth fading from them.

“Yes, it is.” He said it flat and cold.

“Eliot, stop sc-”

“I’m not scaring her,” he cut off Sophie’s words. “I’m warning her.”

She fell silent for a moment, then fixed him with a hard stare. “Warning me about what? You, them, danger, the weather, _what_?! You will have to articulate your warnings and be more precise if you want to be taken seriously. Solemn and random proclamations are just getting on my nerves. If you have to say something to me, say it. Now.”

“You’re caught in the middle of something you don’t understand.”  If her words had woken any anger, it wasn’t heard in his voice, it remained flat. “I told you already… when a job starts, it has nothing to do with an initiator. And the initiator can face herself with things she didn’t want to happen, to see, or even think about. Because we do our job our way. Our _ways_.”

Knowing what she knew about him and his _ways_ of deal with threats, she flinched inwardly. He _was_ scaring her, and he did it on purpose. No, he has been doing it from the beginning, preparing her for all the things they might have to do.

Before she could answer, Sophie raised her hand to stop the discussion. “Florence isn’t a fragile little flower, Eliot, and she won’t wither if she sees danger. She handled a car chase pretty well. I was driving.”

“Thank you, Sophie, but that’s not necessary,” she said.

“A car chase,” Eliot repeated, rubbing his temples. He looked as if he was about to add something to it, but he just shook his head and got up.

Uh-oh, that looked just like how he got up before smashing the window. Florence kept her mouth shut, just in case, not quite certain why she was making him so irritated. And she wasn’t the only one who sensed it, because Sophie’s eyes were steady on him, studying his posture.

He just stood there, glancing over the room, thinking who knows what – no visible trace of anger, again, but the aura of turmoil was so clear around him that she couldn’t believe Hardison and Parker didn’t notice. Or maybe they did, but they knew what the best thing to do was – let it pass.

“I need fresh air,” he said, taking his phone. “And before you start lecturing, I’ll only go to the street and back, okay?”

Parker’s huff sounded ominous, but nobody said a word to stop him.

Florence sighed, thinking about how to do something to improve the mood.

Now she missed Nate. A lot.

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***

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Actually, he was doing surprisingly good, though he had to keep one hand on the wall while climbing down the stairs. He thought he would only be able to vegetate in the bed after all that slaughterhouse shit, but except for the bruises and pain with every move, he wasn’t feeling weak. Okay, not weaker than usual. That was encouraging –  a very small step toward recovery, but still a step in the right direction.

But it didn’t improve his mood, nor lessen the urge to crawl out of his skin.

He didn’t need fresh air, he needed  silence, desperately, their voices has started to mix into one giant ball of noise, growing louder, driving him nuts.

He opened the back door behind McRory’s just to peek outside, but when he saw his car parked at the end of the street, he slowly went to look at it. Hardison probably got it in the first few days after they brought him here. It was clean, and even the two bullet holes in the trunk had disappeared.

He tried not to think about getting into the car and driving away. He knew he wouldn’t stop before he reached the Pacific.

Before that thought took root, he returned inside, to the back room where they had briefings with clients, now empty. Only a round table, chairs and boards were in it, and it looked, and sounded, like the perfect place to sit in peace and just listen to the silence.

He left the doors open to hear if someone approached, sat at the table, and closed his eyes. Just breathing.

His oxygen mask was lost somewhere in that slaughterhouse labyrinth, so that part was over. No more crutches to help him stand on his own, it was time to get this shit straight.

He rested his elbows on the table and ran both hands through his hair, trying to keep the annoyance and rage at the lowest levels he could; he had been caged in that apartment too long, and he wondered how he'd managed not to snap already. It wasn’t their fault – it wasn’t Florence’s fault either - yet the walls around him, and inside him, were still not breaking. Maybe it was time to start crushing them down, instead of negotiating with them.

She was too relaxed with them, and that was a problem, that was bugging him. He thought she would freak out when he broke a window, but she behaved as if it didn’t happen at all. She treated him like normal, she had no idea what… Damn, he couldn’t, simply couldn’t stand that, that… misconception.

Every time she smiled at him, he had that urge to tell her who he really was, and that she should spare those smiles; of course that was utter bullshit, he couldn’t say that, but that need to tell her was what worried him.

Undeserved…what? Friendship? It wasn’t friendship, it was just a forced relationship, built from need; whatever it was, it was false because she didn’t know anything about him and the things he had done, and she was smiling at an image she created in her head. She thought he was the same as the others and that made his skin crawl.

Shit, he was tired of keeping everything under control, he was beaten and unstrung, exhausted to the bone - he fought his own brain to be able to function every fucking time he woke up - and he definitely didn’t need a clueless writer to disturb him further. He especially didn’t need her to occupy his thoughts when he already had trouble focusing on his own problems.

As if that focusing provided any result, added a dark voice in his head; as if it helped when only darkness and a few gunshots deranged him to the point of losing it completely.

He lowered his hands on the table, watching them starting to shake at the mere memory, and another wave of rage flashed over him. It would be so easy to thrust them both into the wall, again and again, until the crushed remains stopped shaking-

When a quick shadow fell over his shoulder, he just reacted, driven with the need to move. He spun around, striking with an open palm – a blow that should hit every opponent in the middle of the chest and send him staggering a few steps back.

It was pure luck that Florence was so short, because it hit her high in the shoulder. She flew backwards, all four meters to the wall, and crashed hard with her back and head. He just stared at her, frozen in the middle of a breath, while she slowly slid down the wall like a doll with cut strings.

For one moment, longer than an eternity, she looked at him with wide open eyes. She blinked a few times, bewildered, then drew in one shaky breath, while he was still unable to move or breathe… and then she burst into laughter.

Just then he breathed, listening to that clear, crystal sound of pure joy, not quite comprehending why she was laughing… but that sound gave him the strength to go a step closer.

“So, I am an ally now, right?” she managed to say after one moment.

“What?” he whispered. He kneeled before her, not daring to touch her – she hit her head hard, she slammed into the wall with full force, she could have broken bones or – Jesus, he could've killed her, if he didn’t strike with the palm, but the fist, he could break her neck with one hit, not even noticing –

She giggled again, and that smile beamed like the sun. “I passed the initiation – but don’t shoot me, that would make a mess.”

“Florence, I’m sor-” his try was stopped with one small hand raised in front of his face – she frowned at him.

“No, don’t say that,” she said. “This is the first time in my life that someone hit me – don’t ruin that experience with an apology, let me savor it while it lasts. I wrote numerous hits, I wrote literally dozens of people flying into walls, and now I _know_ how it feels. Thank you.”

Okay, this _was_ a concussion. There wasn’t any other explanation. He stopped the panicky urge to pull out his phone and call Betsy immediately, and raised his hand. “How many fingers do you see?”

“Forty two,” she beamed. “The answer is always forty two. And stop looking so shocked, there’s no need for that.” She looked at him and tilted her head, adding more seriously, “I mean it. I should’ve known better than to sneak up on you. I’m sorry.”

“Are you out of your fucking mind?!” He tried to snarl at her, really tried, but all he managed was a choked whisper. “ _You are sorry_?! You? What-”

“What a drama queen you are,” she smiled again. “Good thing I’m not. Good thing I can see this as something funny, and no big deal… because it really isn’t. I surprised you, you acted instinctively, and as you should – so what? In fact, it’s comforting to know you’re so quick.”

He sat on his heels, just staring at her – yes, he needed to shake his head to erase the image of some other man sitting on his heels in a dark back street – and her smile faded.

“Okay, I know I don’t act like a normal person, sometimes,” she said with a suddenly uncertain voice. “Normal women would cry and sulk, or yell, or whatever – but I can’t pretend and act. I have to admit I despise them, many of them make drama out of anything, and this really isn’t something to…This was… a surprising experience. And it was funny. No, it was fucking _awesome_.”

What the hell she was talking about? Her not being normal? He wanted to laugh, but he still couldn’t breathe normally, the fear was still too strong.

“I’m weird. Even by TV business standards,” she went on without a pause. “I guess all writers are a little weird, we act more and more like our characters – and trust me, when you have seven violent guys, being thrown into the wall is something welcomed, because it gives you experience and knowledge.” She bit her lip, looking more and more unhappy. “I’m babbling again, right? Sometimes I just can’t stop, words are just coming out-”

“Yep. Stop it. Be quiet for a second and tell me where you hurt. You hit your head and back. What else?”

She shifted a little, and winced. “Head is okay, just ringing in my ears, but no more than when I once slammed it into a cupboard… and my back is okay.”

“Shoulder?”

“A little, but… fuck, this is embarrassing,” she put both her hands on the floor and rested her weight on them, grimacing. “You know, guys may hit walls with their shoulders, or head, or… but we don’t.”

“We? Who? What-”

“I’ll have problems sitting, okay?!” she hissed. Pink colored her cheeks and she frowned when she felt she was blushing. “Just disgraceful,” she continued with an unhappy murmur. “First hit in my life, and no, I can’t have something remarkable and dignified, a bruise, or black eye, something like that. I had to hit my…Bleh.”

She tapped her fingers on the floor. He stared at her.

Dammit, she was adorable. In so many damn ways. Surprising, fresh, adorable, all in one weird package. He knew he should say something, but he had no words to tell her how normal she really was, and how easy it was to- He just sat there like an idiot, and stared, unable to form two fucking words into a fucking sentence-

“Am I interrupting something?” Nate’s voice from the door behind him stirred them both, and he bit out a curse. He left his back unprotected, with an open door behind him.

“Oh, Nate!” Florence raised her head to the door and a smile lit her face again. “He hit me and slammed me into the wall! You should’ve seen it, I was _flying_!”

“Oh? Sounds really exciting. May I ask why?” There wasn’t any change in Nate’s slightly ironic tone, but he didn’t turn around to face him and look at his eyes.

“I tried to tap him on the shoulder,” she sighed. “I wasn’t thinking- where are you going?”

“Be right back,” Nate’s voice answered already in the hall. “Stay there.”

She looked at him again. “Where is he going?”

“If he is smart, to get a shotgun,” he managed to smile.

“We have a shotgun? That’s cool.”

“No, we don’t, I was just-”

“So he’ll get one? We do need it, you have to agree, liking guns or not.”

“No, he won’t get a shotgun, we don’t do guns.”

“Then why did you say that?”

“Never mind,” he sighed. “Follow my hand with your eyes, and don’t blink.”

She huffed in annoyance but did what he told her – no problem focusing, her pupils were normal, and she didn’t look like she was dizzy.

“I told you I’m okay. Now help me get up.”

He was the one that needed help, his knees were rubbery when he hoisted himself to his feet and pulled her up. Just in case, he slowly sank into the chair, watching her posture and moves while she patted her pants and shirt from the dust. It ended with her turning around the axis, trying to clean her back, with a few little squeaks when she hit or touched certain spots – and he caught himself hiding a smile.

Nate returned with a bottle and two glasses.

“You okay, pixie?” he asked.

“Of course. Where’s the shotgun?”

“What?”

“So we really don’t have any? Damn, shotguns are so useful. One shotgun and we can cover the entire corridor in case of another attack, even I can do it, there’s no need to be a sharpshooter, just point and pull the trigger in the general direction-”

“Do me a favor, and go on up, will ‘ya? Tell them we’ll be there in a few minutes.”

“No problem.” She darted them one more smile, frowned a little at him, as a reminder not to make drama again, and left. They both watched her leave in silence.

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***

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He was still looking after her, trying to see if she was limping slightly, when Nate pushed a glass into his hands.

“You’re okay?” Nate asked sitting in the opposite chair, facing him.

The question demanded an honest answer, and he struggled to frame it. “No, not really.  But I will be.” He took the whiskey in one sip, knowing what that showed Nate, but he didn’t care. “Things are not going as fast as they should,” he continued quietly.

“According to Betsy, the things are going precisely as they should.”

“I told you I was unreliable, Nate. I blacked out in the slaughterhouse; I had no idea where I was. I stood frozen, watching one of them pulling the trigger, and if Hardison didn’t come back for me, he would've killed me. I slammed a girl into a wall. I didn’t hear you coming up behind me. I can’t do my job, and if I try, you might all get killed.”

Nate poured him another one, and the silence spread while he was thinking.

“Well… are we talking about the slaughterhouse with ten armed men, which you all left alive, against all odds? After we believed you couldn’t climb the stairs? That’s sound pretty reliable to me. Also, Florence might be hit, but she is alive. You didn’t kill her – you could,” Nate let out a small smile. “I understand that in your eyes, your performance is shitty… but you’re still better than anyone I know, and anyone they have. I only see results, Eliot, not what ifs in the process, and you should try that too.”

He should’ve known better than to let him start with logic, that was a lost battle against Nate, always. Yet some things couldn’t be solved with logic. He thought for a moment about continuing, forcing him to understand, but no – Nate understood completely, he was just trying to show him the other point of view. Useless, but appreciated.

“Yes, maybe I should try it,” he agreed. “But don’t tell me later that I didn’t warn you.”

Nate nodded. “She’ll be okay?” He changed the subject, there was nothing more to say.

“Yep, she is… very normal. Pixie? Seriously? You gave a nickname to a client. You like her.”

“Shit happens,” Nate smiled, but his eyes were steady on him, calm and serious. “Do _you_ like her, or are you still thinking she would be better left killed?”

Well, he should've expected that.

“Thinking objectively, that option was relevant only in the beginning,” he eyed him, searching for signs in his face, finding none. “Why don’t you look upset by that?”

“Because you can think whatever you want, later. But when the first attack happened, your instinctive reaction was to help her, and only that matters. You should stick to that, and not ponder all the scary shit your brain produces. Trust me, scary shit is something completely normal, I went through tons of that on my walk.” Nate poured them another drink and went on. “Our thoughts don’t define us. Our actions do.”

He cleared his throat.

“Okay, not always, and not all of them,” Nate squinted a little. “Actions can’t be seen without motives behind them.”

“Stop while you’re ahead.”

“Good idea.”

“You know we have only a few minutes more to talk, before a rescue party charges down the stairs?”

“I know. But it won’t be Hardison and Parker this time, Sophie wouldn’t let her come because of the leg. The only way to keep her upstairs is to offer to go with Hardison instead of her, and if I calculated correctly the time Florence needed to tell them what happened, the decision, and Sophie’s arguments, they should be here right-”

“Oh, there you are,” Sophie sang from the door. “We were just coming to see if you were in McRory’s. What are you doing?”

“Well, _your_ brain is a scary place,” Eliot smiled.

“Thank you.”

“Florence said something about a shotgun,” Hardison added, sweeping the room with his eyes – nope, with one eye, he kept the other closed. “You went out to buy a shotgun? That actually sounds like a good idea.”

Eliot shrugged when Nate looked at him. “I have no idea how a shotgun came into the conversation,” he said calmly.

“You’re coming up, or still want to talk?” Sophie asked.

“Yep, we are coming up,” Nate slowly said. “I was thinking while walking, and it’s time to start. We have work to do.”

They all fell silent.

“A briefing?” Hardison sighed. “I don’t have enough info, Nate, I’m too slow-”

“We have time.” Nate glanced at him before he added, “and we have enough scary shit to work on while we complete your data.”

“That sounds… like you had a very productive walk,” Sophie added cautiously. “Can we go up now?” she said, leaving no doubt what the correct answer should be, so they both stood up. She smiled, turned and went upstairs, Hardison following her.

“I didn’t answer your question,” he stopped Nate at the door. “I do like her. A lot.”

Nate nodded.

He wasn’t sure if he was ready for the rest of the alphabet that was going to be unleashed on their heads, now when Plan A had failed – but he knew for certain, by the spark in Nate’s eyes, that it was going to be one hell of a ride.

.

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	22. Chapter 22

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***

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Hallucinations again, check. One client nearly killed, check. Teammate with a concussion, check. Hands still shaking, check. Unable to do his job, check.

He should make another list, Eliot thought absentmindedly while sitting on the sofa, seemingly relaxed, watching the commercials, and radiating a back off warning that would hopefully repel Sophie; she was pacing around him in an increasingly smaller circles.

Tired of everything. And everyone. Mostly of himself, but that was an old story.

He tried not to pay any attention to the fuss behind his back. They all huddled around the dining table –  Sophie around Florence – and only Nate was moving around, sometimes in front of him. He decided not to look at him, but after his third trip to the two windows that overlooked the street, close to the stairs, he noticed he was plucking the bags that were gathered in the corner and under the windows, along with other smaller stuff from another apartment.

There was a huge possibility that Nate was just yanking his attention to something; but whatever, he decided to check what was so interesting in those bags later. And why right now. What was precisely the thing that Nate would like to provoke with this, but hell, he didn’t care anymore, about anything. He was too drained with his own shit, someone else’s shit was too hard to handle.

He tried to forget he'd woken up feeling almost human, almost close to being _rested_.

Yes, surprisingly, there was one bright thing in this day… he thought he wouldn’t be able to get out of bed, but he was doing much better that he expected after their little trip. Though, since he almost killed a client shortly after, maybe it would be the best for everybody if he just crawled into bed again.

A delicate hand put a glass of juice in front of his face.

“I have a question,” Sophie said.

He stared at the juice, and the straw in the glass. _A fucking straw_. For one moment he seriously considered if she was doing it on purpose, if she was trying to _make_ him remember that terrace in Estrella, the slushie, the straw, Villacorta and all that shit. It lasted less than a heartbeat, but the damage was done, all Bugueno’s replies went through his head. A lot of dead people were talking in his head lately.

“No, Sophie, I don’t want to talk to you, I’m fine, I don’t need fucking therapy,” he snarled, shooting a glare at her. She stopped in mid step, strangely uncertain for a second. _Stop, for Christ’s sake, just stop talking._ “Why don’t you go and practice on someone who actually cares?”

She slowly put the glass on the coffee table. “I wanted to ask you about your clothes,” she said quietly, her voice flat. “Do you want some from your place, or do you want me to buy  new stuff? I’m going shopping this afternoon, after the briefing.”

He took one long, slow breath, held it a second, then exhaled. Only a glance to his pajamas reminded him he didn’t remember he changed, and another wave of anger rushed over him. But this time he managed to direct it away from innocent bystanders.

“Thank you,” he produced the same tone of voice, calm and flat. “Whatever is okay with you.”

“If you think of something particular, let me know,” she smiled then, her usual, gentle smile, before she turned away and moved back to the others.

 _Snap at Sophie without any reason, check_.

He sank deeper in the sofa. Just then he remembered she maybe wanted to ask him a different question – maybe she finally wanted to tell him what was bothering her, what she had started when they talked in the bathroom. Just great.

What was the next thing he could do? Strangle the cat?

He had to stop with this, ASAP; he really had to write down every time he told himself that he ought to be nice to them. The results were awesome for now.

Nate went, again, between him and the screens, going to the bags.

This briefing they had prepared was going to put his every fucking nerve to the test, so he started to calm them down, one by one.

The juice had a strange color. It wasn’t Hardison’s poison, Sophie had squeezed fresh oranges. Probably organic, too.

He closed his eyes and sighed.

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***

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Nate and Sophie did everything necessary to make it look like the official briefing; their tall workstation had been replaced by the sofa and coffee table a few days before, so they brought the other smaller table from under the stairs, and put it facing the screens. Eliot moved from the sofa, not wanting to be squeezed again, and took a chair to the side. They even brought the large panels, both glass and wood boards, from McRory’s back room.

He was surprised they didn’t bring the huge round poker table – with that, the room would be filled completely. And one dog. They needed a dog, too, to make the picture complete. Jesus… he tried to erase his car from his mind. _So close. So… mobile_.

Nate lined all of them onto the sofa and remained standing.

Hardison was closest to him, Florence and Parker in the middle, and Sophie near Nate – he noticed Florence brought a pillow to sit on it, and he gritted his teeth. Much to his surprise, she glanced at him with something akin to mischief in her eyes, and grinned – as if they were sharing something funny. She still didn’t look disturbed by what happened, and he had no idea _how_.

“I wasn’t just walking and thinking… I was shopping as well.” Nate opened one of two small packages that sat beside him on the table, and emptied it on the coffee table. He stared at several small cylindrical objects. He bought fucking _pens_?

Parker squealed, grabbing one immediately, and Florence and Sophie also leaned closer to look at them.

“Not in the eyes, Park-”

Nate’s warning was too slow; a red flash directly into his eyes erased Parker’s grin when she turned and pointed it at him, causing him to flinch – _fucking laser pointers_? They were all crazy, for god’s sake, he was surrounded by idiots.

He covered his eyes. “Stop it, Parker! Nate, are you insane?”

“She said we need to occupy Orion, I thought it was important.” As an answer to his words, the cat jumped over his head like a flying squirrel, with all four paws spread out, and chased the red dots on the wall under the screen. He stared at them, not believing – four red dots were dancing on the wall, in the middle of the fucking briefing… All of a sudden, Hardison had no problem focusing when pointing the red dot onto his leg, trying to make Orion to jump on him.

“Can we just, I don’t know… maybe start the fucking briefing?” _Be nice_. “Please?”

“But of course,” Nate said, pulling one the big glass display boards closer, though nothing was written on it yet, nor were any papers pinned. “May I have your attention, please?”

He waited until all the lasers, except Parker’s of course, were put aside.

“We can all agree that we are severely crippled for the next, let’s say, two or three days, so our actions will be adjusted according to that.”

“I’m not crippled, I’m just limping,” Parker said stretching her leg in an almost impossible angle. Her demonstration was slightly ruined by a grimace that flew over her face. He wasn’t sure if that was a headache, though.

“We have no thief,” Nate said almost gently.

Parker snorted. “Two days, and I’ll be able to do anything,” she said.

“We have no hacker.”

Hardison quickly opened his one closed eye and tried to stare at Nate steadily. “I can function now, just slower. I’ll be fine tomorrow.”

“And finally, we have no hitter,” Nate said, darting a smile at him.

“I can…” he trailed off. Just a half an hour ago he told Nate he couldn’t do his job. He paused, tried again. “I can’t… I can…”

He told him he couldn’t be trusted, so he was the only one to blame for this – but fuck everything, there was no way he would sit in bed while they all went around chasing mobsters. An unreliable hitter was better than no hitter at all. But, he reminded himself, it was better to have no hitter at all, than to have one who could screw everything up and get them killed.

Nate patiently waited, watching him with unreadable eyes. _Manipulative bastard_.

He'd been played, but that damn motherfucker did it on so many levels that he lost count of it while trying to decipher the initial motive. _Fuck._ Was he doing what Nate wanted, and what had Nate wanted in the first place? To admit he couldn’t do things, or to say he could? And why?

His brain followed one thread of motives, got stuck, hissed and died. “You’ll so pay for this,” he said, staring into his eyes. Nate just smirked.

He collected himself and sighed. “I’ll choose what I can, and what I can’t do, okay? And that means that your plans have to calculate that – nothing too risky, Nate.”

“I would _never_ ,” Nate said innocently. “By the way, I said we can’t do anything concrete during the next two or three days, remember? There are, though, things we can do while waiting for you all to start functioning again, before... more serious doings later.”

It wasn’t waiting for them _all_ to start functioning, he knew that, he didn’t have to meet his eyes again. He had a deadline to get his shit together. Two days of peace, because of and for him, and after that, hell would be unleashed. It was up to him if he would be a part of it or not.

“Your decision,” Nate said just that, following his every thought.

It seemed only Sophie caught for whom those two days were meant, to swim or sink, judging by the uncertain glance she threw at Nate, and he knew he would be attacked with different life-saving belts very soon. _Just wonderful_. But, Nate’s return to senseless-bastard mode was a change that was more than welcomed – his understanding and care was freaking him out.

“I was wondering,” Florence suddenly trailed in, thoughtfully, breaking the sudden silence. “Can we persuade Cora to come up here dressed in a swimming suit?”

They all looked at her.

She smiled gently and blinked. “You know, like those girls in the movies, that go into the ring with a huge paper with a number, announcing the next round?” Her voice lost its softness and became pissed off hiss. “Only in this case, instead of a number, she can have a sign: another fucking undercurrent in the room, No. 19!”

Even he had a problem hiding a smile, though he didn’t feel like smiling at all.

“Look, it’s simple,” Nate pointed at him. “He’s nagging. He’s insecure and scared. We are trying to encourage him.”

“What?” he choked. It wasn’t something he would choose to joke about. “I won’t fall for that, Nate, so stop. I know what I can do, and what I can’t, that’s all.” Well, not exactly. The things he thought he could do went completely south, and at the same time he did things he was sure he was too weak for… a fucking mess.

The smile disappeared from Nate’s face in a second. He slowly turned his head to him. “No, you don’t know what you can and can’t do.” His words were deadly serious. “Not now. Not before you _decide_ you’ll solve that shit.”

This was going a lot faster than he could follow, dammit. “If necessary, I can do almost anything, and you know it,” he said, knowing he was saying – no, that he was _lured_ to say - the opposite of what he said before – but the problem with truth was its fucking flexibility. He could do it – but he also knew all the dangers of it. And he definitely didn’t need Nate to poke at him, showing him how fucking confused he was about- _Insecure and scared, seriously? Okay, maybe slightly, but-_

“Really?” Nate’s hand moved faster than he'd ever seen it move and the other package from the table flew right at his face. His instinct moved his right hand – the one too slow, too weak, and too clumsy – he couldn’t catch it, though he managed to stop it before it hit him in the face, sending it aside.

“You were able to catch it, and return it into my face in the same move, in one blink of an eye,” Nate said slowly, losing him completely. He was going from ‘you can do it’ to ‘you can’t do it’, faster than he could follow, and he was doing it on purpose. He tried to suppress his anger – he was no one’s toy to be put into a desired state of mind. “Open it,” Nate continued coldly.

Hardison picked up the small package, strangely silent.

He tore the paper and pulled out a shoulder holster with two knives.

“Unfortunately, no black,” Nate said. “I was looking for quality knives, and only the brown leather version was acceptable.”

“Praise the Lord!” Florence murmured in the background. “Finally, _a weapon_!”

He didn’t look at her, though the urge to glare at her was unbearable, still staring at Nate.

“That slaughterhouse shit would have been much less dangerous if you had them then, right?” Nate hooked a hip on the table. “Or not? If you had them, would you be able to use them, _if needed_?”

And that question summed all that shit up.

“Yeah, I would’ve used them,” he said slowly, all the rage draining from him. “I would’ve been able to use them.” _If needed_. He could do anything if needed.

“Two knives against the Boston mafia, after a few days of danger,” Florence continued her low murmur. “Not bad. In the next two days, maybe we can even get a baseball bat. I can already see our chances improving rapidly, so fast it’s almost impossible to follow them with the eyes, they are just coming up pew, pew, pew-”

Sophie and Parker chuckled.

He put aside the holster and cleared his throat. “Briefing?” he said hopefully, seeing Nate eyeing a laser.

“You won’t like it,” Nate sighed, not quite meeting his eyes.

Well, he knew that already. He wouldn’t like whatever job – wrong time for that. But they were here, in this mess, and they had no choice. He studied Nate’s face; his light smile wasn’t worried, though, it was slightly… sleazy.

He leaned back in the chair, crossed his arms, and prepared himself.

 

***

 

“This briefing will be a short one. I have to go with Sophie, because she can’t go shopping alone… we need groceries.”

Nate steadily met four shocked stares. Eliot glanced at Sophie, at her soft, gentle smile she threw to Nate. This was awkward. Groceries before the briefing?

“And, it happens that we have two separate cases that have to be solved differently, connected only by Florence. We have to get rid of Knudsen and Dvorak Security, and we have to steal a sixth season,” he looked at all of them before he continued. “Because her problem with the mobsters has nothing to do with Michael Winslow.”

Florence cleared her throat and raised her hand. “Knudsen is after me because _Winslow_ ordered him to kill me and take the USB with the recording of him talking about his business dirt, if I recall correctly,” she stated. “Knudsen doesn’t even know me, he has nothing with me… only Winslow does. And I still don’t get why they continued to attack after we put him in jail, and the recording became irrelevant.”

Nate just smiled. “The first stage of our plan will be saving Michael Winslow from a child pornography accusation. He _didn’t_ order your murder, Florence. He did, however, everything we accused him of in front of Brewer, connected with your ratings, and he will pay for that. He won’t work in TV business ever again. That’s enough. You all agree that spending years in jail as a child molester is a little too much for taking money to push a few shows on the air?”

Before Eliot thought of what to say, Sophie whispered: “Backdoors. You mentioned the backdoors you left for him, I remember… you never leave a backdoor open for a Mark, Nate.”

“Yes, Hardison will make visible for investigators that all the images he uploaded came from another source, using Winslow’s IP as a decoy – he's kept it hidden for now.” Nate nodded to the hacker, and Hardison started to poke his tablet.

“You knew something was wrong even when we were just going to break into C4 to plant evidence,” Sophie said.

“Because from the beginning, his reaction wasn’t following the action… it was overkill. I’ve told you already that the things he said weren’t clear enough, any decent lawyer would beat the case in court. He wasn’t threatened very much by that – and yet, he killed for it?  Gave orders for a famous writer to get killed? Something wasn’t quite right about that from the beginning, but now I think I connected a few dots.” Nate sighed and pressed a button, and Knudsen and Winslow walked and talked in front of them one more time.

Eliot was studying Nate more than listening to their voices; the mastermind kept that slow smile, rarely seen in the middle of a briefing. He usually radiated manic energy. He wasn’t sure if he was doing that to calm them all down, because they were forced to stay put for awhile, or if something else was being plotted in his head.

He caught Hardison’s sideways glance in his direction, quick and light, and returned it the same. The hacker had noticed it too.

He had a very bad feeling about this. But, he had a very bad feeling about everything lately, so it was useless. He grabbed Orion when the cat tried to jump over his chair – he was still trying to catch the red dot that Parker walked on the floor. She frowned. Orion frowned too, but he kept him on the armrest.

Nate stopped the recording at the same frame he had been stopping it at every time he watched it – Eliot recalled now how many times he actually studied it – at the big image of Knudsen right before his man gave him the car keys. Eliot studied his bright, shark eyes once more. He even looked like a guy from the one of their previous jobs, the one that named himself after a fish.

“Hardison, pull up the pictures I gave you last night,” Nate continued.

In a minute or two, the screens were filled with small pictures of the sand excavation camp, buildings, rows of bright yellow trucks, a huge parking lot surrounded by wire, different machinery, strange pools and one pickup truck. Eliot quickly scanned through the pictures, comparing the close images with what he'd seen from a distance, placing the buildings in the right spots. The complex was huge, and he was only able to see a small part of it, from the slaughterhouse yard.

“Hardison, when you’re able, find as much as you can about these trucks, the tipper and dump ones, they are unusual. Now, remove all the buildings, pools, machinery and trucks.”

Hardison divided the screens and in one half he put the remaining pictures, three pretty good images of a nice Ford Pickup. 

“This is a Ford Super Duty F-250 DRW XL,” Nate went on. “It was parked in a very special spot amongst trucks in the excavation camp's parking lot, covered and protected. Eliot, do you see anything significant on it?”

He studied the three pictures. One from the front, with registration plates, one from the side, and one showing its cargo space with packages. The image was slightly blurry because of rain, but the Chinese letters were visible on the boxes.

“The Red Guards,” he said. “They were talking about the last three packages they had to deliver, so they wouldn’t call the police to investigate the burglary at C4... But how can we know these are those packages? You said it was among the trucks. There’s plenty of other…”

“We can’t know. In a day or two, we shall find out.”

“We’re going into the slaughterhouse and sand excavation camp again?” Parker frowned – no, Parker deepened her permanent frown. “This rain will last for a week,” she added with a sigh. “Do you want me to steal the pickup, or we shall only steal the packages?”

“Neither. Hardison, can you do a little magic, and zoom in Knudsen’s image?”

“Sure,” the hacker played with his tablet, keeping it at arm’s length and slightly angled; he was sitting just one step from his chair, and Orion tried to grab the tablet. Eliot started to wonder when exactly their briefings started to be so damn surreal. They had a _cat_ , for crying out loud.

The image on the screens became a blurred mess, then went smaller, then cleared, grew bigger, and finally, the close pan of Knudsen’s hand occupied the entire screen.

“According to Hardison’s files, Knudsen drives an old Corvette,” Nate said slowly. He pressed a button and before their eyes, the insignia on the car keys became clear. _Ford_. “His man gave him Ford car keys. Your murdered cameraman, Florence, didn’t record Winslow blathering about money for the shows. He recorded the delivery of something dangerous, for Knudsen.”

Well, that was nice; Eliot almost smiled, but then he remembered all the trouble that would be connected to this particular plot and bit out a curse. Nate’s smile didn’t change, it seemed as if going after the old president of a TV company, or fighting against Don Lazzara’s nephew with an army of organized, trained mobsters, was exactly the same to him.

“So you’re saying that Knudsen wanted to kill me because _he_ was recorded taking the keys of some obscure pickup?” Florence sounded as she couldn’t believe her eyes. “Just because someone, somewhere, somehow, might connect him to…that, whatever it is? That’s crazy.”

“No, that’s how they work,” Eliot said. “They wouldn’t climb so high in their ranks if they weren’t eliminating any _possibility_ of a screw up along the way. It’s something important, and he obviously won’t risk it.” He stopped, suddenly not sure if he was being nice enough.

“He killed your cameraman for that.” Nate added.

Whether he was nice or not, it seemed that the news hit her hard. It definitely wasn’t easy to find out she was the real target because of something they knew nothing about – and knowing nothing about it, in her head that clearly meant that it couldn’t be solved. Winslow was a much easier enemy than one of Boston's mob bosses.

She stopped looking at the screens, bowed her head and started fidgeting with a cup.

He went through his words and tone to see if he had been too stern, but he was pretty sure he said it normally, without growling.

She had a little crooked smile, he noticed it just then. When she smiled, the left side made a small dimple, just one. It was visible even now, when she held her head low, so her short locks brushed her nose. It didn’t always appear when she smiled, but only when she was worried, and her smile was slightly twisted and forced.

Just now he remembered he noticed that tell in the van when they talked.  The conversation was blurry, but that uncertain, twisted smile was clear in his mind.  The sudden wish to erase that worry and make her smile without that painful twist caught him unprepared and he bit his lip, not quite satisfied with that. He shouldn’t think about that at all. He shouldn’t be affected by one damn unhappy smile. He shouldn’t stare at her in the middle of the brief-

“Whenever you’re ready, Eliot.”

 _Fuck_.

Nate’s voice was even, heavenly patient, so casual that it even startled Florence – she raised her head to look at him.

“I’m thinking,” he said lightly, keeping his head in the same direction, he just made his eyes distant. _What the hell had Nate asked_?

“Whatever he says, I still think they won’t attack here anymore, they would expect police to be waiting. Of course Eliot will know more about thug behavior and expected reactions, but some things are logical.”

 _Thank you, Sophie_.

“Not likely,” he continued on her cue, not daring to look at her, pissed because he was caught off guard, and even more pissed because she noticed it. “That’s not my field anymore.”

“Hello? Thugs, killers, attackers, expected reactions, behavior, MOs?” Hardison waved a hand to draw his attention. “Whose field it is, if not the hitter’s?”

“The mastermind’s,” he smiled to Nate. “Their reactions are unpredictable now, because they are no longer the ones who decide their actions. Knudsen probably gave them an order in the beginning, and simply waited for the results, not interfering. I could tell you their steps pretty accurately, if that was still the case, but it isn’t anymore. After the slaughterhouse fiasco, he'll take over again, he will actively engage. So, this isn’t predicting thugs’ actions, this is a standard reading the Mark.”

“So, are they attacking us again or not?” Florence asked.

“In both cases, not today. The thugs would try to give us time to relax and then attack, and if Knudsen is taking over, he'll spend today organizing it. Tomorrow is another story.”

“And the plan is…?” Hardison looked at Nate who was sitting on the table, listening to them.

“The plan? Ah, nothing,” Nate smiled. “Two days of rest and recovery, and then we’ll start proper recon. Plans will come, eventually, as we go along. However…” a quick smile, again, went over his face. “We have another case, remember? We have to revive M7 and get them back on the air. Season six won’t air itself.”

“As much as it hurts to say, I have to tell you to leave it,” Florence shifted uncomfortably.

“Why?”

“Because it can’t be done.”

“Ah,” that was Nate’s only reply.

“No, seriously, Nate, it’s over. Brewer will announce it on People’s Voice Awards ceremony the next weekend – Jesus, I have an invitation, I’ll have to go and look brave… They simply decided that my show wasn’t good enough, didn’t pay out, and they are replacing it with something that will bring them more money. You can’t fight a logical business decision. You have no means to do it. Let it go.”

“Would your show be canceled, if Winslow didn’t ruin it in the first place, bringing it to attention of the Board of Directors? If it wasn’t sabotaged, meticulously, through the entire fifth season, with every means he could use?”

“No.”

The silence that followed her words was cut off by Hardison’s quiet humming.

Eliot watched her – this time paying attention to everything – she slowly turned to look at Hardison first, then at all the rest of them, and their identical smiles. Even Parker managed a combination of a smile and frowning, something painful to even watch.

“What?” Florence growled. Fuck, she really _growled_.

“You see?” Sophie darted him a disapproving look. “You’re a bad influence.”

“Nah, she had it in her,” he grinned, “It just waited to break through.”

“Look,” Florence sighed very patiently. “There’s still a slight chance they’ll change their minds, in TV business decisions are changed on a daily basis… why don’t we lay low and see what will happen in the few days before the PVA? Nobody knows about the cancellation yet, thank God.”

“Why is so important that nobody knows?” Nate asked.

“Because that would make it almost official then – it would hinder any chance of changing their mind, they can’t do that after going public, and admit they made a mistake.”

“Is that so?” Nate waved a hand to Hardison and the hacker grinned, typing a little faster. Eliot almost felt sorry for her.

“What are you doing?!” her voice rose uncontrollably.

“Florence, do you know what diplomacy is?” Nate asked her gently. “The art of keeping the enemy talking, until your archers are in range.”

“What is he doing, Nate?!”

“You see,” Nate continued with the same gentle, slow tone. “When you’re engaging in battle, it’s very important that you push your enemy into the defensive position. It’s even better if you catch him unprepared, in mid step, off balance. That’s what we are going to do. We will force C4 to _defend_ their decision – and they wouldn’t be able to do so. They have no real reason for the cancellation, except greed – a thing no one clever would ever admit to their fans.”

She squeaked. “Nate, if any word of cancellation goes public, it would be a disaster–”  She squeaked again when Hardison put an official C4 page up on all the screens, with breaking news about the cancellation of The Magnificent Seven: The Next Generation.

She stared at it for a few seconds.

“Well, well, look at that,” Hardison purred, pulling the comment section onto one screen – the numbers started to rise, one per second. “I’m afraid it’s official now.”

“You have no idea what you have done,” she whispered.

“I do,” Nate flashed a smile. “We were few – now, we are a legion. Our archers are coming into range.”

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	23. Chapter 23

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***

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Okay, this wasn’t so bad. Eliot slowly exhaled his anxiety along with his fear. For the next few days they would be here, relatively safe, before they started the recon for Knudsen, and that would give him time to get it together. Hardison would do his geeky stuff with this Season Six Job, and the hacker would be occupied with that day and night. He could even hope for some silence along the way, Florence would be helping him.

They didn’t need him for anything for now, and if their luck held, it would remain until the end.

When Nate and Sophie went shopping, he might even start on the almonds; though the kitchen was connected with the rest of the room, divided only by a counter with chairs, it gave off an aura of ‘don’t disturb’ when he was in it, cooking. He calculated that he would be able to be busy in the kitchen for one hour before he needed to rest – much better than a few days before when he almost passed out during lunch, and needed to lie down twice while preparing the meal.

He stood up, putting Orion on Hardison. The hacker left his tablet on the table and just sat there with his eyes closed; it seemed that even those few buttons he pressed were making his headache worse. He sneezed instantly, muttered a curse, and clutched his head. Orion snuggled closer.

“Where the hell are you going?” Nate looked at him.

“I’ll see what we have in the fridge, and make a list,” he said taking his juice with him. “I’ll make something to eat before you get back from shopping.”

“Ah, I don’t think you’ll have time for that,” Nate said. “Sit, we are not finished here.”

“I don’t need to participate in all the geeky things about ratings, YouTube and viewership – I’ll listen from the kitchen.”

Nate’s smile grew wider. “Sit, please.”

He sighed but sat down.

“If I recall correctly, and I do,” Nate said slowly, “Florence said one time that her fans, those who are commenting on the news right now, are gathered in groups all over the web, on different social media. Twitter, Tumblr, LiveJournal, Facebook…”

“Look, I see your mouth moving, but I only hear 'blah blah’ coming out. I have no idea what those Twimbly things are, so unless you have something for me to do, I’m out of here, okay?”

“Good you mentioned that – because I _have_ something for you to do.”

“What?”

“Everything.”

At that, even Florence stopped biting her nails. He stared at Nate, not liking his smile, not liking it at all, while terrible suspicion started to grow in his head.

“Nate…” he said just that, half question, half warning.

“Hardison will be here to help, but I want him to rest as much as he can, and what little time he can spend typing, to do his search for info on Knudsen. You agree that’s more important, right? But I need someone who will handle this part with the fans.”

His vocal cords were strangely wooden, he said nothing.

“It happens that you’re the resident expert on Facebook, by happy chance,” Nate went on, with the same smile. “Florence will show you all the Facebook groups that you need to pay attention to, so I suggest you focus on them.”

He cleared his throat. “You want me to _type_?!” He summed up all that shit in one word, filling it with as much acid as he could spit. “Why can’t Sophie and Parker do that?!”

“Because you’re the only one, except Florence, that watched the majority of the episodes, and you’re still watching it – and because I know that when I told you to watch it, you did it, thoroughly, knowing its importance. You can walk among them and play a rabid fan – the two of them can’t. ”

He stared at him in disbelief, noticing how cautious Hardison suddenly was; except for a grin, he was silent, just watching them both in turns.

“And what…” His voice betrayed him, he stopped for a moment just to breathe, deeply regretting the loss of the oxygen mask. “How am I supposed…? What the hell should I do with Facebook fans?”

“It’s called grifting.”

“Nope, I can’t.” He crossed his arms and glared at Nate. “I’m _insecure and scared_ , remember? Won’t do it.”

“Eliot…”

 “You don’t understand… I made a fake account just for Betsy, I’m not _on_ Facebook. I have no idea what people do there, the only thing I know how to do is to return a gift for Farmville! That’s the only fucking interaction!”

“First thing, find the groups. Second, join them. Third, mingle, post, talk, read what they say, adapt. It’s not any different than infiltrating an enemy base, for crying out loud, it’s not nuclear physics!”

“I wouldn’t have problems with nuclear physics, it’s logical! Groups of screaming people… women… freak me out, there’s nothing logical in crazy!”

“Hey!” Florence and Hardison spat at the same time. “Hold your tongue, man,” Hardison glared. “Fandoms and communities are not _crazy_ , they are just devoted. And loyal.”

“Yeah, geek boy, there’s nothing crazy about dressing up in plastic costumes and skirts, right? Playing out the scenes from movies and series… Grownups screaming and running around with plastic weapons? Nothing crazy, my ass.” He turned to Nate again. “Florence can do it. She can make a fake account, and do all of that much faster – and you can’t say she’s not an expert among M7 fans. She… she is their fucking mother, she created ‘em!”

“That’s why she’ll be helping you….” Nate hesitated, studying him. “But she can’t do one thing, Eliot… We need a commander for the legion. We need them organized and directed in the direction we want them to go, to be a force that will help us, and not destroy our efforts. And you are the one who can do it.”

Unbelievable. Un-fucking-believable.

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***

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“When do we start?” Florence asked when Hardison went to prepare Eliot’s laptop, and Nate and Sophie started a private, quiet conversation.

“As soon as you list all the important groups, I’ll make him a new account. It would be suspicious if he appears suddenly, so I’ll make his account in groups look like it's a few months old. With over one thousand members, the admins will think he was just inactive, and he came back after the news of the cancellation. After that, you’re on your own.”

Eliot still sat stupefied.

Florence slowly got up. “No need to hurry. Nate, your upstairs bathroom…anybody need it?”

Nate just waved his hand, and she took one of her bags, passing by Parker and Orion engaged in a battle of wills over the red dot.

She tried to keep her steps slow as she climbed the stairs. She tried to smile at Sophie, who followed her with those dark, deep eyes from the moment she spoke. She _really_ tried not to look like she was running away to hide.

When the doors were locked, she sat on the floor, hugged her shins and moaned.

Crying would help her, but her eyes were dry.

Too much. Her teeth clattered. _Too much of everything_.  First, she had been slammed into a wall, then she found out that the Mob wanted her dead, and finally, Nate had just ruined every chance for M7. There was only a limited number of shocks she could endure with a smile.

Surprisingly, she managed to keep calm after she almost died, yet she would never forget Eliot turning in less than a second and striking in the same move. One would think that Death was terrifying; no, Death had calm, emotionless eyes. It didn’t matter that those eyes immediately filled with shock and fear, no, only that first moment was important. Death in action. It took all her control not to show him how frightened she really had been, how that outburst of violence shook her. Because it wasn’t his fault. It really wasn’t.

All of a sudden, all her clever plots, action scenes, fights and shootings felt so childish and false – she saw the real nature of violence. And it wasn’t rage. It was efficacy. Cold, calm, practical. _That_ was terrifying.

He _did_ warn her. He tried to tell her she might face things she wouldn’t be able to handle.

She meant everything she said to him, but it was one thing to babble, still in shock, about how great was to know, at last, what that looked like – what violence really looked like – and something completely different to let herself _feel_ it. And she continued with that, for him, because she saw the despair in his eyes. It _wasn’t_ his fault.

Oh God, Sophie would know, Sophie could see through her, the grifter could feel how her words in the briefing were forced and empty, just a mask she put on her face to hide behind.

She jumped to her feet, washed her hair with quick movements, washed her face with cold water, and tried to glue a smile on her face again. It didn’t work. She stared at a crooked, false grimace.

The rest of the briefing could justify her bad mood, she decided – there was no need to pretend she was well. She just had to hide what, exactly, bothered her. She drew in one shaky breath. All those dead in Estrella now became real, not just a note in the news, now that she saw a killer in his eyes. That one second, one long, cold, endless second when she stared into Death.

She put a towel on her head, straightened up, and opened the door.

And jumped back with a suppressed cry.

The android stood right there, a few inches from the door, motionless, her eyes covered by large black glasses; Florence was pretty sure that Parker hadn't moved during the entire time she was in there.

“Parker,” she gasped. “You need the bathroom? You should call out, or knock, I would come out faster-”

“You aren’t heading for Nate’s window? You’re not that type, and it’s a two story fall.”

“What?”

“You ran away.” She tilted her head, two black mirrors hiding her eyes. “I know running away.”

Right, Parker, of all people, could see that? As far as she knew until now, the girl was barely able to read basic emotions.

“If you don’t want somebody to notice, don’t clutch your bag at your ribs on the side of your dominate hand, and don’t lower your eyes. Smaller steps, one third slower, and more flexibility in the knees is also useful. And _never_ smile. Try to look thoughtful, or bored.”

Florence stared at her. Thoughtfully. “Can you”-she waved her hand at her face-“take them off?”

“Nope. Headache. Everything’s too bright,” Parker slowly reached with her hand, waited to see if she would flinch, and patted her on her upper arm, slowly, three times. Florence blinked at that; the thief did it carefully, with _concentration_.

“Thank you, Parker.” She figured it was an encouragement, at the last moment. “I already feel better.”

She said the right thing, Parker smiled. “Nate is scary. When he creeps you out, remember he never loses. You can worry or not, but in the end, it all ends well. It always does.”

That reminded her of her talk with Eliot, about winning, how refusing to lose was the only way, and she clutched her bag. The dark glasses turned down to her hands, and she released her grip with a sigh.

“You are all scary,” she darted a nervous smile.

“Hardison isn’t.”

No, he wasn’t. She knew his type, she was surrounded by young, brilliant people. He wasn’t dark and deadly. He wasn’t… she shifted uncomfortably under the android’s invisible gaze, reminding herself to be more cautious in front of her. Parker could read her too, just differently – it seemed they all were experts at noticing a different set of tells. Together, they were a terrifying bunch.

“He keeps us alive, and he won’t let them get you.”

“Hardison?”

“Duh.” Somehow, she knew Parker rolled her eyes. “Eliot, silly. That’s what he does.”

Was the thief actually trying to explain to her what happened in the back room, or she was thinking that the mobster threat was troubling her the most? She wasn’t sure.

“He growls, but he isn’t biting,” the thief continued. “He is domesticated, and on a leash. Only trespassers have to worry, not the people in the yard – and you are inside, now.”

 _That_ put a smile on her face.

“And what happens if the head of the house isn’t near?” she asked. “Who’s holding the leash?”

“Oh, Nate doesn’t hold the leash, ever. Eliot does.”

Parker smiled once more, and passed by her, heading for the stairs. She silently followed.

It wasn’t the time to ask her what would happen if that leash ever snapped.

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***

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Hardison’s eyes – his eye – practically glowed when he brought him his laptop. The hacker had pulled out one more from who-knows-where; the damn room swarmed with laptops.

He knew from the beginning that something was strange about Nate’s and Sophie’s going to buy groceries, but now he got a pretty good idea why they felt that retreat would be a clever thing to do. Hardison was silent, with an almost angelic aura around him, and only that damn eye gloated in mocking, which he didn’t even pretend to hide. And he was also becoming smarter - the hacker didn’t say anything, and he couldn’t react, couldn’t explode at him.

“While you’re busy with the… job… Parker and I will make something to eat,” Hardison said gently.

 _No you won’t_.

“No, we won’t,” Parker said passing by the sofa. She had Nate’s black glasses covering her eyes after she returned with Florence from upstairs – her hangover was obviously worse – and her steps were slow, without the usual bounce. “Wake me up when they return.” She proceeded to the bed.

He opened the laptop. Then closed it, and closed his eyes.

Well, this was silence, if nothing else.

Hardison was at dining table with his job, and his typing was painfully slow. On the opposite side of Hardison and kitchen, he could hear the pitter-patter of Florence’s feet; she was busy with her bags, piled under the two windows, along with the rest of the stuff. She was quiet and invisible, and she carefully avoided coming even near his sightlines. And they were supposed to work together on this shit; well, this would be a day to remember. Especially when the urge to curse was the only thing on his mind.

He should’ve been satisfied with her retreat; after all, her too normal behavior was troubling him. The danger of acting too relaxed with them – with him – accepting them as normal, was now pretty much solved. At least, now she knew what was lurking deep inside him. He wanted that, though he would've chosen any other way than that hit to show that to her.

He opened his eyes and looked at her; she was leaning over the bags and digging through the clothes she had in there. He had a perfect view of her ass and long legs, and he tried to look at her like he would look at any other fine looking woman, noticing all her attributes in one expert glance. His attempt ended when she straightened up, and only thing left in his mind was her _shoulders_. She was hunching again, slightly, a defensive mechanism he noticed before. Fuck, that wasn’t good.

Liking her would be a disaster. Liking her as in _liking_ her. Especially now. He could, for a change, like her as a nice, lovable client, right? That would do no harm, and it could even help with the battle for the damn show. Not too emotionally engaged, but caring. Yep, that’d do.

He closed his eyes again, and started to think – and he needed an effort to do that – about this trap he fell into. Somehow he had a feeling it was a set up from the beginning.

Did Nate do this so he had something to work on and to occupy him in case he wasn’t able to do the hitter’s job? Or did he do this to push him into action, to show him what he would have to do unless he got himself together? Both versions were bad. And both, probably, were true.

Damn.

Well, if he wanted to function after the two day deadline, he should try to rest as much as he could – and that meant going back to bed. He picked up the laptop, brought the juice along, settled in the bed, half sitting up, and went to see what Hardison had done to his new Facebook page. As if one wasn’t too much already.

He never checked his wall, he always went straight into the game, trying to spend the least amount time he could – and now his new wall was full of information, pictures, events. Hardison probably used an already-made fake ID, just as he did for Alice White. He traced posts all the way back to 2011. What a bunch of useless crap… he sighed and resisted making a comment, scrolling through all of it, remembering the most important facts, in case somebody asked something. At least the hacker had enough decency not to put any picture as his profile picture, leaving it up to him.

This was just recon for the job, he reminded himself, just like scouting or monitoring… only virtual. Right. He sighed again. That drew a low chuckle from the dining table, but when he glared at Hardison, he pretended to be busy with his own screen.

Just then he realized that there was no clear info about his sex – the name was neutral as well. His identity had many sport links, but also a bunch of motivational crap with roses and deep thoughts written on sunsets. Dear Lord.

He tried to concentrate on that, when Florence came, bringing her laptop along with a chair.

“Are you ready to start?” she asked lightly, sounding as she was looking forward to it – the best sign that showed she wasn’t. Welcome to the club.

“No.” That drew an almost earnest smile.

She placed the chair so they were both facing the screens over the sofa in front of them, so she could peek at his laptop.

“I’m sending you a list of the biggest, most important groups of M7 fans on Facebook – the first on the list is our main target.” She typed quickly.

“What should I expect?” he asked her, noticing how she avoided looking at him. He expected some postponed reaction after everything that happened today, and he made a mental note to keep an eye on her, and maybe, if necessary, nudge Sophie to talk to her.

 “Look, they are fans. They love everything connected with the show. They post pictures, they make banners, fanvids, they write fanfiction, they vote in polls – nobody expects you to do any of that, of course, but you’ll be there, commenting on their pictures, asking how their pets are doing, talking with them… as one of them. Do you want to be guy, or… a woman?

“What?”

“Be a guy, not all of them are women – there is a significant number of viewers who like the show not because of the seven guys, but because it’s entertaining. That will give you a dose of authority. What picture do you want to use? We can’t put your face there, right? Don’t use one of the seven, it will draw only admirers of that particular one – a recurring character that everybody loves is always a good choice.”

He sighed. “You’re babbling again.”

“And you’re sulking. We are, at least, consistent, right?” she smiled and pointed a finger at one picture. _That unhappy smile again_. “Here, use this one. Just last year we managed to get him on the show, and we’re no longer known as ‘the only geek show that doesn’t have Mark Sheppard as a bad guy’.”

He eyed the guy, disliking him immediately. “He’s half bald already.”

She looked at him the way Hardison used to glare when he commented on his geekness – he called it geeky frown number nine: unable to sort out all thirty-seven sentences that ran at the same time and vocalize them as just one.

“He is…” she stopped. Yep, he was right. Thirty-seven at least. “Just put this picture, okay? And don’t pay any attention if the Supernatural Horde tries to lure you onto their side, just be polite. We've been fighting with them for years now, we are always in the finales of all the voting polls and the battles we fought are epic.”

He exhaled and ran both hands through his hair. Information overload. And not just that – that was information he didn’t want to know, ever. Like, _ever_.

“Two guys with demons and vampires? What do they have to do with your show?”

“Rivalry. Their fan base is huge, millions, literally, but we are…I mean, my fans, they are persistent. They vote for hours, days, weeks, they are simply not stopping.”

“And why would they try to lure me to their side?”

“Because of Mark Sheppard,” she said.

He watched her. She blinked once.

“You don’t know…He's Crowley…” she swallowed all thirty-seven sentences and smiled. “Hardison?” she turned to the hacker for help.

Hardison was staring at them, elbows on the table, not trying to hide how much he enjoyed this.

“Now you see what I’ve been living with for years,” he said. “He still thinks that Vulcans are in Star Wars, you know?”

“How’s your headache?” he asked, politely. “Aren’t you supposed to have problems focusing?”

“Surprisingly, distant objects are not double, I can see you without crossing my eyes… the near ones, however, are troubling.”

“Focus on Knudsen,” he growled and looked at the screen again. “If Supernatural fans are the Horde, what’s our name?”

“The Cavalry. In fact, they are not exactly a Horde… that’s the name we gave them to mock them. They call themselves Family, and they are a warm, nice fandom. I like them a lot.”

He sighed. “Warm and nice fandom, I get it.”

He opened the group she'd stated was the most important and looked at all the posts, each with dozens of comments. He didn’t sigh this time, Hardison would chuckle again.

“So, that’s it,” Florence said. “Start reading, and slowly, comment, post, mingle. I’ll be here if you need any help. I’ll work on my blog, and create a few more IDs. I’ll take Twitter for now, and monitor reactions.”

He just nodded.

He glanced at the huge banner. All seven guys were shirtless.

Dear Lord.

Well, there was no use in hesitating, and the sooner he started, the sooner it would be finished. He murmured a curse, shook his head once, still not believing he was doing this, and typed:

_‘Hi there. I wasn’t posting much since I joined, but now I have to; this cancellation crap is awful. Any new info?’_

There. Not so hard, he told himself. He still had no idea what to do, but he would figure that out, with time. He had to see what kind of people were in the group, for starters, and read their- a soft ping, a notification jumped up. They were quick in commenting.

 _‘Hi :D Good to have you and welcome back - we are in desperate need of more voters – here’s the links for important polls. The PVA is covered for now, can you vote on the others? <3 Supernatural and Castle are pressing hard, their numbers are rising quickly._’

Florence peeked to look at their reply.

“The Admin. Boss Lady is in charge, do everything she told you. Go vote. Or, say you’re going to vote – be helpful.”

“Yes, Ma’am,” he sighed. That got him one almost not unhappy smile in return. Then he typed: ‘ _Yes Ma’am, I can vote_.’

It took only two seconds, and one stupid 'heart' came as a reply. Yet, judging by the response of the chief – and he knew fast responses in the middle of a battle, and their importance – they were fighting hard, and they were outnumbered.

He didn't expect fighting for them to be his first step, and that, slightly, lessened the awful feeling of all this Facebook crap being completely useless.  He could fight. It didn't matter that it would be fighting by voting and with a mouse – the feeling was important.

That Supernatural and Castle were going to get their asses kicked.

He smiled.

Under the seven guys, huge letters said: Magnificent Seven: Vote & Promote Group.

 

 


	24. Chapter 24

 

 

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***

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Voting wasn’t as dull as Eliot thought it might’ve been, mostly because they had one giant thread in which they could post about voting, problems, and offer some sort of encouragement to those who'd had enough of it. For those like him, for example – he had enough after the first three clicks, when he realized that _that_ was it. Open the page. Click M7. Close the page. Repeat.

He set a goal of one hundred votes. Before he reached it, he felt his mind withering, and his eyes glazing. Just one more hour of those stuporous, repetitive moves and he would become a slobbering idiot.

Florence typed quickly beside him, and he used every loading of the page to glance at her screen; she was writing something on her blog. _Wing Chun Chicken_ , said dark green letters. In the pauses while she thought, she went to some bluish page with a bird, sending short messages from many different accounts, often replying to herself.

He couldn’t even sigh in peace, Hardison still chuckled every time he heard him.

He knew he had to stop when he started to envy Nate on the shopping trip.

“How’s that going?” Florence asked right when he rubbed his tired eyes.

“Voting and talking,” he said, un-gritting his teeth with effort. “I read all the comments on the voting thread, and I’m starting to recognize names and their faces – or what goes as a face in this crazy place. I’m asking questions, so they're all around me, very helpful, giving advice to a novice. For example, this -” He glanced to a thread where a few new comments appeared, and he blinked, astounded. “What the hell… why’s this woman sending me a _gun!_? Is that some sort of tradition, or custom, or am I unwanted?”

“What gun?” Florence read the comment and looked at him as if he had two heads.

“I have to see this,” Hardison was already coming, so he used that chance to sigh, quickly.

“I don’t see any gun,” Florence eyed him almost worriedly, and he carefully selected that part of the comment. She choked, and quickly withdrew to her screen. Hardison bowed to the screen.

“H&K?” the hacker stuttered. “Seriously? You think it’s a _gun_?”

“It’s Heckler & Koch,” he explained. Florence produced one intelligible sound.

“It’s hugs & kisses, you, you…” Hardison turned around, going back to the dining table, muttering low. “Not even one hour has passed, and hugs & kisses already? Really?”

“I’m nice,” he growled after him. “It’s not my fault you probably had to wait three months for that.”

He returned to voting, bored to the bone.

The next crisis, after another fifty votes, was so strong that he thought about sneaking over to Parker and poking her to wake her up. That told him that he had to concentrate, quickly.

He checked other M7 groups, mainly about the seven actors, and noticed that the majority of the names from the Vote& Promote group were in those, too. They were all voting, just in different polls, and all their strength was scattered. It was worse than running to and fro over the battlefield, shooting one bullet on the left, and then another on the right.

When he – very carefully – asked about it in the thread, he got nine different explanations at the same time, all contradicting.

Interesting.

“You’re staring at the screen and you’re not voting,” Florence said after a few minutes. “Is something wrong?”

“They're not organized,” he said quietly. “There’s just a few of them who monitor the enemy voters-”

“Opponent voters,” Florence corrected him rather coldly. “They aren’t enemies.”

“Okay, okay, our friends from the other side, who are, by the way, beating the crap out of us right now, in a vigorously friendly manner… where I was? Ah, yes, monitoring the… other voters. There are ups and downs in their votes, as if they come in clusters to vote – every time we gain a little advantage, here comes a mass.”

“They are very connected on Twitter. We send calls for help too, but we are not as many.”

“Not only that. Your people vote in the main poll for the Best Series, but they also vote in polls for Best Actor… and they have seven of them. They are doing a barrage fire, instead of a frontal attack, and their strength is being wasted, they’re not advancing in any poll.”

“You know, even if we win in all the polls, it means nothing,” she said quietly, and a weight seemed to settle on her shoulders again, rounding and hunching them.

“They know that,” he nodded to his screen, but he said it with a small smile that he hoped was encouraging. “They also say it would be an important message to C4. They canceled a show that won – might win - the Best Series and the Best Actor category.”

“Internet polls are not influential, only winning the PVA would make, maybe, a difference.”

“So we only have to win that one, too.”

She averted her eyes and said nothing.

“What did I say?”

“The People's Voice Award is the biggest annual award, especially for network and cable,” she murmured. “In our category, we are against the Walking Dead, Burn Notice, Pretty Little Liars and White Collar. It’s hopeless.”

“We won an election for a foreign country. A small one.”

“Eliot, the Walking Dead has more voters than Africa has people. It _is_ a hopeless task.”

He smiled again. “A hopeless task or an impossible task?”

“What’s the difference?”

“There’s none. Both don’t exist.”

“Okay,” she smiled, finally. “I know what you want to say, it’s all in the head, right? But, both the TV and movie business has their own set of laws, predictions, analysis.”

“Perfect.”

“Why?”

“Because you forgot who we are. We break the law for a living.”

 _That_ put a real smile on her face. “Just when I managed to put that thought deep, deep in my mind,” she said. She looked as if she wanted to add something, but her laptop made a quiet ‘ping’. “A message,” she murmured again and went back to her typing.

He opened the page. Voted. Closed it. Repeated.

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***

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Sophie knew that Nate volunteering to shop for Eliot would end in nagging; he obviously thought that buying shirts was something you do in five minutes. The last twenty minutes he was silent, and he just followed her around, carrying the bags, looking more and more lost.

“This one,” she showed him a pale green one, and he pursed his lips. “What?”

“It’s silk. It looks like Florence’s blouse. It’s even a similar color. You won’t make him wear that, ever.”

“It’s classy.”

“He needs _shirts_ , so he can change while he is in the apartment, he doesn’t need an entire wardrobe. Besides, if he wears it – and he might even try it, just to please you, so don’t put him in that position – what if Florence decides to wear her green blouse the same day? This one looks like something that ABBA would wear onstage, it needs only glitter.”

For a second she thought about engaging in an argument over silk-cotton-colors-glitter, but it was a lost cause. Yet, it reminded her of something else, so she just put the chosen shirt into the bag and smiled. “I’m glad Florence will work with Eliot. He smiles more when she’s near,” she said lightly.

“Is that so?” He eyed the next shirt she took and grimaced. “Pink? Sophie…”

“Don’t be old fashioned. Pink is the new orange. Besides, it will add a little color to his face. I bought gray ones, one black, olive, and a pretty one, white with little blue flowers- what?”

“Nothing,” he sighed, peering into the bags, pretending he wasn’t counting them. “Florence is doing much better than I thought. Except he scares her. We all do.”

“I wouldn’t call it ‘scaring’,” she said carefully, and he raised his head to look at her face.

“What do you mean? He’s not flirting.”

“Exactly. He’s not flirting.”

No response.

“Nate,” she sighed. “He is _not_ flirting.”

He looked at her. “I just said that.”

She bit out another frustrated sigh and smiled. “For someone who’s supposed to be a genius, you’re completely dumb when it comes to relationships and feelings, aren’t you? That was a rhetorical question, you don’t have to answer it…I’m just repeating the common truth.”

“So, you think his not-flirting is something that we should consider? Why? You have to be in the mood to flirt, and he isn’t – don’t you think he has enough shirts already? Why red? Who the hell wears _red_?”

“For some people, it's a natural, instinctive reaction. For him, precisely.” She waited, putting the red shirt with the others. He tilted his head, looking at her with interest. He really had no clue.

“For him, running around and fighting is natural, too, but he can’t do that now,” he said. “I don’t see why flirting would be any differ- besides, why is that so important?”

“How come you can read every mark, but you’re unable to understand basic-” she stopped, took a deep breath, and continued. “Okay, let’s put it this way. You have a mark, and you know his natural reactions. He suddenly stops one of his usual behaviors. A natural one, instinctive, that’s not influenced by his wealth or state. What would you think about it? Just shrug and continue, or notice it?”

“Okay, consider it noticed,” he grinned casually, but she noticed a switch in his mind when his eyes narrowed. “What now?”

“Nothing,” she shook her head with a huff of laughter. “Bring those shirts, I’m going to find those awful trousers with so many pockets that he wears… you’re sure he wouldn’t rather-”

“Completely, absolutely sure. Without any doubt.”

Men.

“Wait just a second.” Nate took his phone and dialed, shaking his head when she reached for another shirt. “Good day. I’d like to confirm an appointment with Mr. Knudsen. Inspector Olivia Lohman is on her way and… ah, he’s expecting her? Good, excellent. I had to check, the Inspector doesn’t like canceled meet- right, of course. No problem. Good day to you, too.”

“Are you trying to hurry me?” she smiled when he ended the call.

“I wouldn’t dare, dear.” He glanced at his watch. “We have only forty more minutes to find two or three pairs of pants.”

“Forty minutes! That’s not enough even to look at all the-”

“I know,” he said solemnly. “Tragic, isn’t it?”

She frowned, turned on her heel, and hurried.

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***

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Uh–oh. It was good to receive messages, that meant they were open and friendly people who liked to communicate – and when did _that_ become something good? – but when he read the message, he had to rub his temples with both hands, to shake off the headache.

Damn.

He cleared his throat. “Hardison, do we know how to make a banner for promotion?” he asked carefully.

“Do _we_ know?” the hacker repeated. “You mean, Hardison, make me a banner so I can brag about it in the group and – Florence, take a look, and tell me how the one that asked him that looks?”

It was too late to scroll down, Florence quickly eyed the picture. “Pretty, redhead, young.”

“Figures.”

“She’s one of the admins of the page,” he growled. “You said to be helpful, so I am.”

“Sure, _we_ do know how to make banners.” Hardison’s quick reply was even more worrying than his grinning. _Everything about this shit was worrying_. “Do you want roses, or ribbons around it, or little hearts that would surround-”

There was no point in glaring when Hardison was barely able to see him, but it _felt_ good. “Something simple. Dark background.” He was sure he said it calmly, but Florence flinched. Not only was he forced to do this, he also wasn’t allowed to be pissed off because of it… the next thing, he would have to look like he was enjoying it.

“No problem, one simple banner coming your way. By the way, you can’t see him because of the sofa, but Orion is crawling behind it in a very suspicious manner.”

Florence jumped up immediately; he kept George near the chairs and sofa after the cat’s attack on the table, but it seemed that the temptation was too big for him. Florence quickly brought George back to the table. Orion sprinted up and down the room three times, and stopped on sofa’s backrest, with his ears low and tail switching. Eliot watched him, fascinated, expecting hissing or something even worse, but he suddenly jumped down with a low, gentle murmur, ran over to Florence and snuggled.

She cooed over him, but he wasn’t deceived by that – the monster was now only one meter away from the table and George, and they had no excuse to chase him away.

He darted him a ‘I know what you’re doing’ stare, and started to vote again, not paying attention to the purring and pure innocence on his left.

Another fifty votes.

His hand started to feel strange. He restrained himself from asking Hardison how long it took to get that carpal syndrome, the reply would be impossible to survive.

Click, click, click.

People did this for hours? For a living? He masked a sigh with quiet coughing.

A low chuckle, nevertheless.

He posted one excited _Yay! <3_ when they managed to pass Castle. It lasted only four minutes, mainly because all the voters stopped voting and came to the thread to say, 'yay'.

He hated his life.

He waited until Castle’s voters lost their advantage – probably going to their threads to say 'Yay', too – but just when he thought they might take the lead again, the Supernatural voters jumped in all at the same time, and raised their numbers.

Slamming the laptop into the screens would scare Florence, he reminded himself. Before he could think of some other way to express all the futility of this, Florence’s phone rang, startling her. Orion jumped away and disappeared. _Good_.

“Nate?” she asked, as if surprised that Nate had her number, and listened, glancing twice at her laptop.

“Yes, I can, sure. Aghast, outraged reactions? No problem.”

She ended the call and looked at him. “Nate wants me to write a couple of short articles that will show how the news about cancellation is being taken. The emphasis is on the consternation. Later Hardison will put them on the websites of all the important newspapers.” She glanced at the hacker who was poking at his laptop with one finger, moved over one meter away from him. “He can do that?” she asked quietly. “Hack into the New York Times and just plant an article? Without anyone noticing it? With one eye and one finger?”

“They’ll notice after a while, and remove it. Then he’ll repeat the process.”

“Meanwhile, hundreds of thousands of people will read it,” she said quietly, as if for herself.

“Yep.” _Dear Lord, he almost said 'Yay'_. “He’ll do that with all the important newspapers that have a large readership, and keep the articles up for days, until you write the new ones. It’ll start an avalanche, and the smaller houses will follow the trend and write their own articles to match ours. If our luck holds, they will all be in the same tone. If not, he’ll monitor every mention of M7 and remove the negative ones.”

“That sounds simple when you say it.”

“It is simple… for him.”

It was interesting to monitor the rising and falling of hope on her face – she clearly liked this new step. He could tell she believed it could work, by the speed she typed, producing articles faster than he could write one comment in a thread.

It wasn’t polite to constantly peek at her screen, but he couldn’t help it, he was fascinated by the change in her writing style. It was as if five different people wrote them, not just one. He was sure not even a thorough analysis could tell it was the same author.  For the last few days, he had been trying to figure out how her brain worked while watching the episodes she wrote entirely herself, without co-writers, and he failed. _For now_.

“Do you two need anything?” Hardison asked, getting up, and he quickly continued his clicking, just waving his offer off.

“No, thank you,” Florence said politely. “Maybe later.”

“Your loss,” the hacker said throwing his empty soda bottle into trash in the kitchen. He started to open and close cupboards, murmuring something about his frogs, and Eliot darted an irate look at him; noise could wake Parker up.

“Uhm.” Hardison said only that, standing frozen, holding the fridge door open.

“You okay?” he eyed him; he didn’t look like he was dizzy, more like deep in thought.

“The fridge is completely full. So is the freezer.”

“And?”

“And why did they say twice, at least, that they are going to buy _groceries_ after the briefing?”

“To have an excuse to leave apartment and all this mess, and spend a few hours alone, in silence, without us?” Just as he said that, he realized Florence flinched again. There was no point adding to her guilt, so he continued without pause. “And Sophie mentioned buying clothes for me, she told me…” he trailed off for a moment. “Yep, shopping was mentioned more than twice. Sounds like being groundwork laid. For what?”

Hardison quickly returned to his laptop. “Their earbuds are not on, so that must mean they’re not doing anything,” he said hopefully. “They wouldn’t leave us here and go do something…” now it was his turn to pause, thinking. “Oh, yes they would. They surely would. The three of us ain’t able to do anything, so they went to do something without us, without telling us. They made it look like shopping so we wouldn’t-”

“Stop. Stop right now. Why’s everybody lately more paranoid than me?”

“’Cause you’re still half dead so your paranoia is muted as well?”

Florence knocked on the table and both of them looked at her. “And what would they do?” she asked. “There’s nothing. They can’t do anything with C4 now, and certainly can’t do anything with Knudsen and the mobsters. Nate said that the recon will start when all of you get better.”

Eliot pushed the laptop away, not liking sudden unease. He remembered thinking that was something strange about that damn shopping, but there could be hundreds of explanations.  “Can you track their phones, Hardison? Just in case.”

“Already on it. Sophie’s turned off, and Nate’s on. They took Lucille, but I don’t have any tracking devices in her, I’ve cleaned it completely when we brought all the bags from-”

Fuck. Nate had gone to the bags twice, while they waited for the briefing to start. He quickly stood up - too quickly - waited until the sudden dizziness passed, and went to check them.

“Hardison, come here. Nate was plundering this bag, see what’s missing. They took something from it, and you may be right. They _are_ doing something.”

It took only one look for Hardison to start cursing. “This one was full of IDs, bugs, cameras and tracking devices.”

He said nothing, just stared into the bag for a few seconds. “Wake up Parker,” he said and turned around, going back to the bed to fetch his phone. When Nate answered he put him on  speakerphone. “Where the hell are you?” he tried to speak normally, but he was too pissed off.  “And don’t start with shopping, groceries, clothes, we know you’re doing something.”

“Are you pissed because we’re doing something, or because we left you out of it?” came the calm reply; he could feel the bastard smirking.

“Nate, this is stupid, you’re going without backup,” Hardison jumped in. “Come back and wait, we’re not in a hurry.”

“What are you doing?” Eliot didn’t wait for Nate’s reply, he knew what he would say. “If you’re going to the mobsters, I swear I will-”

“Look, we’ll be back in a couple of hours, so just stay there and relax, we’re not doing anything dangerous,” Nate replied still calmly, but that smile was clear, too.

“We _could_ go with you, you should’ve told us-”

“Ah, you _could_ help us, right?” That sounded just a bit strange, as if his smile widened. “There is no need to go alone when you have a team to back you up, is that what you’re saying, Eliot? ‘Cause going alone to do things is all of a sudden stupid, right? And leaving the team behind, clueless, is also stupid, when you’re on the receiving end? The poor team will now have to guess what the hell we’re up to, where we are, the team will have to track us all over town, trying to guess our steps, unable to be close and help us. An awful, awful feeling, isn’t it?” Sophie’s chuckle in the background added to the sting. “Relax,” Nate continued seriously. “There’ll be enough reasons to get pissed off when you see the classy shirts that Sophie bought. Stay there, all of you, and I’ll call you when we finish, okay?” He ended the call before any of them could say anything.

“He turned the phone off, no tracking,” Hardison checked his laptop. “But we can be sure they’re going back to sand excavation camp.”

The camp full of mobsters.

“They won’t do anything risky,” Hardison said carefully. “They’ll probably just monitor it for awhile, see the best way to get in, that sort of thing. But, that place is too isolated from everything. They’ll have to leave Lucille far away and go closer by foot, and if they’re discovered, a lot of shit can go wrong in the middle of nothing.”

“You’re starting to make sense,” Eliot murmured, still thinking. “And that’s a frightening experience. Florence, will you, please, go and find me something to wear from Nate’s closets upstairs? Hardison, you have the Challenger’s keys?”

“Can I drive?” Parker’s sleepy voice startled them both.

“No,” they replied at the same time.

“But he said we must stay here,” Florence turned around halfway to the stairs. “Was that an order?”

“I see it as a suggestion,” Hardison grinned. “We’ll go there just to be close, if needed, monitor the situation, and return here before them – they won’t even notice we were there. In and out, unnoticed.”

“Well, that can’t go wrong, right?” Florence sighed and continued upstairs.

Sitting here and doing nothing was out of the question, and none of them were that bad that they couldn’t endure the drive. What they would be able to do when they get there – if needed – was another question. He glanced at Parker who was stretching before getting up, trying to make her leg function before the first step, and Hardison who went to turn off two laptops, and who almost stumbled on the stair he missed though he was looking right at it.

He hesitated, watching them, but when he opened his mouth to speak, Hardison raised his hand.

“Don’t even think about saying it. Seriously, man, _don’t_. Not the time, or the place for that shit. We are _all_ going.”

So he said nothing. Hardison was right. _Again_. This day was disastrous.

“You should let me drive,” Parker said quietly. “We’ll be too late; it’s more than an hour drive, and we don’t know if they're already there.”

“Don’t worry, mama,” Hardison’s grin broadened. “I have an idea.”

Yep, Florence was right… this _couldn’t_ go wrong, definitely.

He sighed, and tried to concentrate on his breathing.

 

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	25. Chapter 25

Chapter  25

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***

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Florence was ready to go in a less than a minute – much faster than Eliot and Hardison.

“Since when do we have a rotating light bar?” Eliot asked when a beaming Hardison pulled  the light from one bag.

“Since we needed it during a certain night, and didn’t have it.” The hacker examined the strength of the magnet on the bottom. “With this, we can be there in a half an hour. No speed limit, baby. Let’s go!”

They couldn’t leave her alone in the apartment, and they needed someone to drive; she was okay with that. She wasn’t afraid, just a little hurried as all of them were – though their going to the car didn’t look like a rescue party; they sneaked down as if they knew they were doing something they shouldn’t. Hardison and Parker both had black glasses now, and she was sure Hardison used them to permanently keep one eye closed, judging by his careful steps down the stairs.

They were on the street and in front of an orange Dodge, when she realized that Eliot had the keys, not she.

He stopped at the driver’s door and Florence almost bumped into him; she quickly changed course and went around the car. Hardison was lingering in the back, walking slowly so Parker’s painful steps wouldn’t be so obvious.

“I think I’m the only one here who is actually able to drive,” she said quietly.

No response came.

Eliot looked at the car with a strange hesitation, and for a moment she thought he was thinking about letting her drive. Just one moment, though – the next one he opened the door and sat.

She used the opportunity and took the passenger seat.

The fifteen seconds they spent waiting for Parker and Hardison seemed to last much longer; he was sitting stiff as a board, staring out the front with both hands on the wheel, not just holding it, clutching it.

His right hand, when he finally turned the engine on, trembled so hard that he missed the key hole twice. She bit her lip and stopped any comment.

Parker carefully crawled onto the back seat, Hardison put the light bar on the roof and they were set to go, but she was suddenly completely sure she didn’t want to be driven by a man who was only allowed to be out of bed one hour a day.

It seemed that Hardison thought the same.

“Seriously, man? Why don’t you let Florence drive? It’s insane, Betsy would freak out and you know it-”

“Just get in already!”

Florence squinted when they started, when the engine roared in the silent street.

“Slower!” both Hardison and Parker hissed from the back seat. “You won’t make much time through town,” Hardison continued. “And you definitely don’t want to make us sick, right? More than we already are.”

That threat worked, Florence noticed. She carefully kept her eyes on the street, but she studied Eliot’s moves. He was driving with his left hand on the wheel, the right was down on the gearshift; he moved it only when necessary. This was almost like sitting with a laptop, she tried to calm herself down, glancing at his profile. He seemed concentrated and that was good. But he also seemed to be half absent, and she didn’t know what to think about it.

Hardison obviously noticed it too. “You okay, man?” he asked softly, deep concern clear in his voice. Too clear. He continued, quickly making his voice mocking. “You won’t faint on us while you're driving, will you?”

Five seconds passed before Eliot replied. “I drove a car only three days after that bullet, while bleeding out and dying, on a triple morphine overdose, and I drove the whole night. I _think_ I’ll manage not to faint now, Hardison.” He missed fifth gear and went into third, the car thundering for a second.

Oh. No wonder he was so stiff. Who drugged him? Damn, there was so many questions she wanted to ask him, but she remembered Nate’s warning. No questions about That Night. She started to understand why, watching his face being set into a sharp mask. He wasn’t even that concentrated when he lipread the words of the Red guards from the recording, from a blurry gray feed.

The thing she didn’t know, however, was troubling… was he concentrating on driving, or  was his mind set on something else, and they’d all end up squashed into a wall? There was only one way to check that, and she mentally pushed aside all the warnings. “Who drugged you?” she asked directly.

“Not now, Florence.” His voice was a low rasp.

“When?” she asked quickly, watching the Challenger speeding through the traffic, and the way his eyes tracked everything in front of him, not even once glancing to the passenger seat, to her.

The pause before the answer was even longer this time. “Some better time.”

“I was wondering, can we buy a shotgun now that we’re already on the road?” Parker’s uninterested voice came from behind. “We can go to Francisco, I bought the hand grenades from him.”

The car swerved slightly to the left, but Eliot managed to set it straight in a second. “No, Parker, we can’t buy- what hand grenades?!” His voice lost that absent tone, and annoyance crept into it. “Who the hell is Franc-”

“You’re the same as Nate – he kept making me leave them every time we went to do something.”

“You give me the full name of that guy, and where to find him – he sold hand grenades to a girl? Seriously?”

“I acted cute.”

“Even better.”

“Or, instead of a shotgun, we can buy a bazooka,” Parker continued. Her voice was lower, but felt nearer, and Florence turned in her seat, finding her face mere inches from hers. Parker looked directly at her, but her eyes were hidden behind the glasses.

Florence stopped herself from shifting; she could feel the papers in her back pocket. The thief couldn’t take them, read her notes about a bad guy based on Eliot, for whom she needed a bazooka to kill, and return the papers to her pocket without her noticing it. Then she remembered her earrings. Yes, she could do that.

“I’ve changed my mind,” she said to the thief, grinning. “First poison, preferably curare, and _then_ a bazooka. Twice.”

Parker giggled and drew back, not paying attention to Hardison’s questions about the bazooka, nor to Eliot’s growling about the hand grenades.

Florence watched her for a second and darted her a smile – it seemed that the android knew how to return him to the present, without him noticing the intention. Maybe they’d all survive this ride, after all.

Yet, she wondered how innocent her question was, really, and what the thief would have done if she gave her the wrong answer. She _was_ strange.

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***

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“You’re aware of the shit storm that awaits us when we get back?” Sophie asked when Nate stopped Lucille one block from the dark green building of Dvorak Security Inc. If it wasn’t for the color, it would look very much like the C4 building – long, simple, and very… secure.

“They’ll sulk, and then get over it,” he said watching her transforming into Olivia Lohman, Inspector from the Department of Natural Resources. It was an old alias Hardison made for a small case, but they never used it. It would hold water until they got home and Hardison covered it up with more accurate data, if needed. Unfortunately, that was the only one they had for DNR, so she had to go alone.

She wore a dark suit with a white silk blouse, and her hair was falling free on her shoulders. It took only three things to transform her from beautiful, confident businesswoman to clumsy book worm – buttoning the blouse tightly to her neck, squinting behind her glasses, and holding her briefcase against her chest with both hands.

“Two of his thugs may recognize you – the one that held you in the corridor is maybe out of commission, though Hardison thinks his exploding jacket wouldn’t have done much harm,” he said when she checked the bugs in the briefcase and her pocket. They didn’t have earbuds, but Hardison’s surveillance system in Lucille was set on default, it recognized transmission without him needing to do anything more complicated than to turn it on and set it to search. He would be able to hear everything she said. “In any case, if you see any of them, abort everything.”

She took a few pieces of white fur off her suit, similar to those on his dark shirt, and put on her glasses. “I can only _remind_ them of a woman they held in the corridor,” she corrected him softly, putting a nasal tone in her voice; an irritating sound, like a permanent whine. “And before you continue, I know – don’t be a threat, lull him in false security, and just introduce myself, as the first step.”

He just nodded. They might be blind, but they weren’t deaf, and this was just recon.

Nothing to worry about.

And certainly, not the time to ask himself how clever it was to go into a mobster’s liar without a hitter.

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***

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They needed thirty minutes instead of fifty-five – with the rotating light the Challenger sliced through traffic like a blade. Hardison said he was keeping an eye on police channels, just in case, but they didn’t need to slow down even once.

Eliot slowed down only when they turned onto the small road that lead through the forest surrounding the sand excavation camp and the slaughterhouse – he noticed his reactions were much slower with every minute and the narrow road needed more concentration.

He shouldn’t feel so damn tired after just one drive. But he did.

He kept moving his right hand to a minimum, yet he could feel familiar pain through his shoulder and chest. Not as much as after the slaughterhouse fight; after that he was in agony, though he never used his right hand completely outstretched, he mainly used the left one.

He should’ve let Florence drive, but he had to know if he would be able to do it. The results weren’t that bad. He did feel as if he ran a marathon while loaded down with a cement bag, and walking would be interesting after this – but his breathing was okay. Faster and shallower than usual, but okay. For now.

The first sign that something unusual was happening was the smell of barbeque that came through the forest. It wasn’t a weekend, and clouds were threatening rain again; who would camp here?

“We'll have problems with parking space,” muttered Hardison, staring at the many cars that appeared on both sides of the road.

He slowed the Challenger to avoid people walking to and fro, on the same road they had waited for Lucille to pick them up, without traffic and half abandoned.

“We’re on the right road,” he said, watching five tents rising on the junction. “The camp entrance is at the end of the road to the right, only two hundred meters deeper into the forest.”

“At least we can avoid sneaking around in the mud,” Hardison said glancing around. “We’ll mingle in the crowd – this is even better than silent monitoring.”

Eliot eyed the crowd, looking for familiar faces, but no Goons were among them. A man standing behind the huge barbeque cheerfully waved to newcomers.

“Okay, get out,” he said waving back and smiling. “Try to find those two idiots, but don’t let them see you. I’ll make a circle around the entire complex and try to find Lucille. They had to park somewhere.”

They jumped out suspiciously eager, even Hardison. Parker seemed to be more interested in something colorful in front of one tent, than avoiding trouble.

He spent five minutes, searching every forest path he saw, but Lucille wasn’t anywhere to be seen.

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***

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Robert Knudsen had a beautiful smile.

And the only reason he had to smile so beautifully at a spinster in inspection, was charming her to get her off his back.

Don Lazzara’s smile, though, wasn’t that beautiful, but it was warm and genuine.

Sophie held her briefcase tighter and returned the smile to both men sitting in a huge, bright office, trying not to think about Nate’s reaction when he realized who was visiting his nephew.

“This is my first inspection,” she blurted. “I was just recently transferred from a different department, where I had no contact with… clients. Mr. Knudsen…?”

“That’d be me,” Knudsen jumped on his feet and offered her a chair; for the moment she thought he would kiss her hand. “How can we help you, dear Inspector Lohman?” She sat, watching him hovering over her; young, handsome, in a suit that cost as much an entire month of a DNR inspector's pay – and aware of it.

Don Lazzara radiated warmth.

She put the briefcase on her knees, making her feet slightly crooked, as if not used to high heels. “This is an annual inspection,” her voice kept the whining tone, but she made it official and stern, like she was reciting a well-learned speech. “I have to see your permits. We are particularly worried about monitoring the air and water pollution around your sand excavation camp; further steps ought to be taken in evaluating that to fulfill the new standards.”

“Anything you need.  When you announced your arrival, I copied all the relevant documents. My other business is security – and I pay just as much attention to the security and well being of citizens around my camp.” When he eyed her from head to the toe and darted a smile, she blushed and lowered her eyes with a sheepish smile.

“You’re _so_ kind,” she said. “We at DNR very rarely find someone who’s really concerned about the environment. If we – after I study your papers – find a reason to visit your camp, I’ll be there in person, to see that the inspection is correctly performed.” At this, she looked him straight in those unnaturally bright eyes, but briefly, as if surprised by her own bravery.

It was strange to talk with the mark without other voices in her head, and the sudden feeling of loneliness and danger added a natural tone to her unease.

“I’ll be delighted to show you around, I have nothing to hide. On the contrary. I recently talked with your superiors at DNR, and I’m preparing one more donation. I bet you don’t know any other owner of a Frac sand mine that donates Air Pollution Monitors to his worst enemy,” his smile widened, but the only thing she saw was Nate’s face, and how he stopped his – almost certain – nervous pacing up and down Lucille, and how his eyes narrowed like every time he heard something crucial. Her smile was colored with that image, and she quickly straightened herself up.

Don Lazzara didn’t say a word. He slowly leaned forward, widening his smile, and very gently removed a white hair that lingered on her sleeve. His round, jolly face creeped her out, but she returned his smile with a shy one. She was nothing more than a sheep to those wolves, and they had to stay in that conviction.

He just listened, and his eyes, half hidden under heavy eyelids and gray bushes of eyebrows, were steady on her.

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***

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One woman with two small kids drove away, leaving an empty spot near the place where he let the others out, and Eliot parked the car under the trees. The jacket he wore – Nate’s - came handy when he felt rushes of a cold wind that announced another storm. It seemed that rain was inevitable when this camp and slaughterhouse were in sight.

Hardison and Parker were talking with a man holding a huge banner. Florence was near them, hiding in the crowd, keeping her back to the TV reporter who walked among the people, asking questions. Her face was buried in huge pink cotton candy. That was exactly what they needed right now – her face on TV screens, in front of Knudsen’s sand mine. Knudsen would… he stopped. Damn it, why not?

He checked the perimeter; Knudsen’s people were on the other side of the wire fence, and no alphabet Goons were near. The next thing he had to do was get out of the car, and he hesitated a moment before the first step. Stiff, shaking and exhausted – but able to walk. As long as he walked slowly, no one would notice anything.

“Find Lucille?” Hardison came to meet him.

“Nope. They ain’t here. We missed.”

“That would be good news, if that didn’t mean they're somewhere else, doing god knows what,” Hardison said. “My next guess would be the Dvorak Security building. Or even the C4 building. Damn. And we can’t just go from site to site, chasing them. We should go back. And never tell them we went out for nothing.”

“Yep, we should.” He studied the man behind Hardison and his banner. “What’s his problem?”

“ _Their_ problem. These are the Concerned Lincoln Citizens, CLC – they are protesting against the sand mine and pollution. Knudsen is expanding the mine and their houses are only protected by the forest. Mostly downwind.”

“Ah. Green things? That’s popular now, right?”

“Popular?” Hardison frowned. “I wouldn’t call it popular, it’s necessary. Pollution is-”

“I mean, popular as in ‘a famous TV writer engaged in saving a small community, while mourning the loss of her show’, that kind of popular.”

“That’s insane,” Hardison choked. “This is Knudsen’s mine, man, the same guy who’s doing everything to find her and kill her. Giving an interview on his doorstep…” Hardison paused, turned around to look at the wire fence, then turned back. “Fuck, _that_ will be a message. I have no idea what kind of message, but damn, we should do it. If nothing else, just to piss him off.”

“Angry people make forced steps, and forced steps are often wrong,” he smiled.

Hardison returned the grin, but the next moment the grin faded. “When we get back, keep M7 on all the screens, don’t let Nate or Sophie turn on the TV. We were in the apartment, doing our job, nobody left and gave any interviews, okay?”

“They should know about it. But okay, not now. Maybe tomorrow. Eventually.”

“What tomorrow?” Parker asked from their left; only three seconds ago he saw her on the opposite side.

“Nate and Sophie are not here,” Hardison explained. “We came here in vain, and we won’t tell them we left apartment.”

“Nate will know,” she stated, slurping something that looked dangerously close to hot chocolate.

“No he won’t, we’ll cover our tracks. If we are in the apartment when they get back, there’s no way-”

“He’ll know,” she repeated and went away.

“We can make everything to look like we spent hours working,” Hardison said to him. “Until we tell them about interview, he won’t know.”

“Not sure. Now go, tell Florence what to do, I’ll be here and watch everything. Don’t forget that Goons can recognize you – keep low. And stay together.”

He moved back a few steps and leaned on a tree, resting and scanning through the crowd. The TV crew was now in front of the huge wire opening. Hardison picked up Parker and went over to Florence, explaining the idea at a fast pace.

There was about hundred people around the tents, and it wasn’t a problem to scan every male face, searching for something suspicious. What he would do if he found something suspicious, well, that was a question worth thinking about.

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***

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“And that’s why we all have to be aware of the devastating impact those chemicals have on our environment, and the health of our children!” Florence finished her last statement at the same moment the gathering clouds poured the first drops of heavy rain, but the damn reporter didn’t notice it was her final line. He kept pushing a microphone in her face.

“As a famous TV writer, you certainly have the power to spread the word. Have you considered including frac mining in your series, as a case your heroes would solve, if you had gotten a sixth season?”

 _It’s raining, you moron_ , she screamed inwardly, keeping her professional smile glued to her face. In a matter of seconds, the occasional drops became a heavy curtain, and her curls hung lank, dripping on her forehead.

“Yes, certainly, we had so many more stories to tell, and frac mining was one of them, planned for the next season. All the people interested in pollution problems, and mostly, solving them, would enjoy it immensely.” She gave the camera one more smile, turned around and disappeared amongst the people gathering at her back and clapping.

She had no idea how they would manage to leave this place unnoticed, to avoid her connection with the three of them and the Challenger, but before she could hide somewhere, Eliot was by her side with a huge umbrella. Those people were stealing things at every opportunity.

Parker appeared at her left, putting an unfamiliar green jacket over her shoulders, and Eliot kept the umbrella so low that she was invisible and more importantly, unrecognizable. Hardison waited for them by the car, hunched over his tablet, guarding it from the rain.

“You drive back,” Eliot gave her the keys and waited until she closed the door behind her. It seemed no one noticed her retreating with them.

“Home, or to try to find them somewhere else?” she asked. Just when he sat, and darted her a strange look, she became aware she said ‘home’.

“Home,” he said quietly, and rested his head on the back of the seat, closing his eyes.

She drove carefully, glancing to the mirrors often to see if someone followed them. She knew all the rules about noticing a tail in traffic, she even knew how to chase someone without being seen, but this was the first chance to apply that knowledge for real. It wasn’t as easy as she wrote it.

“They _could_ ’ _ve_ been there, you know,” she said after a while, when the silence became too uncomfortable. “Maybe even trying to get in, using the protesters in front. They would probably need you then. This wasn’t entirely in vain.”

“Pull over,” Hardison murmured.

“What? Why? You have something else in mind, or-” Eliot reacted before she could, he turned the wheel to the right. She quickly stopped the car by the road.

Hardison was out, it seemed, even before they fully stopped. She squinted when she heard the sound of vomiting.

“Did I drive too fast, or-”

“No, it was fine. Just continue that way, this has nothing to do with your driving.”

None of them went out to Hardison, so she sat too, just waiting for him to get it together and return.

His face was ashen, but he smiled when he sat. “That’s better. Go on, I’m okay.”

So she went on, trying to drive as smoothly as she could. She made a mental note to remember for the next time – _when they say something, first do what they said, then ask questions_. They lived very fast, and quick reactions was obviously one of the reasons they were still alive. This was nothing, but the next time, if she was too slow, asking questions instead of reacting, she could get them all killed.

Her passengers were a mess. Parker’s legs were laid over Hardison’s lap and she couldn’t see her, the thief was too low. Hardison rolled his jacket under Parker’s wounded leg, and he had his eyes closed too. Both of them, this time. He had removed the glasses. It was strange to see him not occupied with his devices.

They were half way there when Eliot took out his phone. Just one glance showed her he was voting in the polls.

“We lost more than an hour,” he explained, noticing her attention. “I don’t want to think about what Supernatural did to the numbers while I was gone.”

The rest of the trip she tried to count his votes, without any attempts to break the silence again.

Less than two hours after they left the apartment, she parked the Challenger in the back street, in the same spot. They didn’t lose much time, that was true, but watching them slowly getting out, she knew this had cost them much more than a small delay would. And, if she judged correctly from their faces, there was, maybe, even a hint of hurt pride. These people weren’t used to failing at anything, not even at something small like this.

She kept herself behind them, following their slow climbing, hiding a smile.

Eliot stopped them all before entering the corridor, and went first. Florence knew he was just cautious and to be honest, she completely forgot that someone dangerous might wait for them.

Yet, when she followed him, and saw the reason he abruptly stopped, she realized that danger had many forms. One deadlier than the other.

Betsy was leaning on the wall in front of the locked doors of the apartment. A slow smile rolled over her face when she saw the four of them. Three of them who should’ve been inside the apartment, under her orders, obediently resting for two days.

“I see you went for a ride,” she said. Judging by the extremely creepy calmness of her voice, she was pissed off beyond any measure.

“What ride?” Hardison moved one step closer, guarding Parker. Betsy just nodded to the car keys Florence still held in her hand. It was too late, and too stupid, to hide it now.

“I should’ve foreseen this,” the hacker continued, muttering. “I made a small algorithm to predict the exact time of your visit – you always say what day you’ll come, but the time varies. I was on the right track to find the number – but I think I can stop searching. It must be 666.”

“Hey!” Eliot turned to the hacker. “You, stop demonizing my nurse. She’s mine, and I love her.”

“Awwww… what a nice try,” her face beamed for a second, but then Florence witnessed the most terrifying thing she'd ever seen – that smile slowly freezing. Betsy looked at them, one by one, and with a deadly even voice, said just three words: “Get. In. Now.”

So they did.

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***

 

 


	26. Chapter 26

 

Chapter 26

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***

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“Why do you people think that taking orders from your nurse lightly is something clever? You’re supposed to be smart, right?” Betsy started the moment they all set foot into the apartment. Florence closed the door behind them, and thought about escaping to the bathroom.

Betsy noticed her small steps and turned to her. “You, stay here. I’ll need that bathroom.”

“Betsy, we’re okay. Much better than yesterday. There’s no need to-” Eliot stopped when she tilted her head a little, watching him. “What?!”

“You look strange.”

All of them looked at him. Except for Nate’s jacket that hung on him, there wasn’t anything strange, he looked completely normal. Even healthy to an untrained eye, except the paleness and tired eyes.

“You’re upside down. You’re standing,” she explained, frowning at him. “This is the first time I've seen you in a vertical position, ever. It’s… different. Unnatural.”

He rolled his eyes, but before he could say anything, his phone rang.

“Nate?” He waved his hand at them to keep them silent. “In the apartment, working, where should we be? Where the hell are you?” He listened for a few seconds. “Twenty minutes? Okay, good. On your way back, buy the stuff from the list I gave you.” He nodded to Hardison when he finished the call, and the hacker stepped forward.

“Betsy, we’ll rest as much as you say, but now we need only a few minutes to do some things,” Hardison said, taking their jackets. “Sit at the dining table, will you? Nate and Sophie will be back soon and we-”

“They told you to stay here, and you sneaked out? How old are you? All of you?” A sequoia would wither under her stare. She sat with her back to the window so she could see all of them, and the entire room.

“ _They_ sneaked out to do something, not telling us! We went after them to be close if necessary. That’s our job!” Hardison started to lose his calmness under her gaze. “And they ought not to know about it, okay?”

“You want me to cover your asses?” she smiled finally. “Interesting.”

Eliot gave out a low growl. “You just sold your soul, Hardison. But keep the rest of us out of it.” He went to the kitchen and turned the oven on.

Florence quickly took Nate’s jacket to return it upstairs where she found it. But she hadn’t brought him just the jacket. “Eliot…” she waved the jacket, and he sighed and went to the bathroom, leaving the things he started to pull out of the cabinets.

While he was changing, Florence sat with Betsy, studying her smile. She wasn’t sure, but there seemed to be a lot of amusement under her frowning. Parker clearly thought the same, because she beamed at her on her way to the kitchen. The thief tried not to limp, yet it was impossible to hide it in front of her. Betsy darted just one look at her direction, and shook her head.

“You, my dear, have to run away from here, while you still can. They are terrible people to hang out with. A very, very, bad influence.”

Florence eyed her. “I don’t see you running away,” she said quietly. “Does it mean they ruined you already?”

“That process is currently- and what do you think you’re doing?!” Betsy looked at Parker who was pulling out five cups and five glasses. Instead of an answer, the thief carefully poured one inch of juice into two tall glasses, and placed them before the two of them. She repeated the procedure with the three remaining glasses, and Hardison took them to the coffee table in front of the sofa.

Parker started the coffee machine, Hardison went to turn on all the laptops, and Eliot returned from the bathroom, changed into blue pajamas, proceeding to the kitchen. Florence watched the play, fascinated, knowing she was watching years of experience; they didn’t have to decide who would do what and why.

“Florence?” Eliot gave her the clothes and she jumped up; Hardison was pulling one of the glass boards closer to Eliot’s bed and the table, and she was trying to decipher his moves. She hurried upstairs, returning the clothes to the same position where she found them. By the time she returned, Parker had poured coffee into the cups. She was just pouring the coffee out of them, leaving only a few drops in all of them, as if they finished it a long time ago.

“Okay, that’s enough,” Betsy stopped Parker, but only after she finished. “Checking your leg. Bathroom. Now.” She shooed the thief before her.

The bathroom being mentioned gave her an idea, and she searched through her bags, finding a robe. She used Eliot’s rummaging through the kitchen, and Hardison’s printing some papers, and retreated into the upper bathroom.

Her hair was already wet from the rain, and she needed just to change into the robe, and wrap a towel around her head. While climbing down again, she paid attention to her posture, and managed to look – and feel – as if she spent an entire hour in a relaxing bath.

Much to her surprise, the apartment was already filled with the scent of cinnamon and vanilla, and that was impossible. He turned the oven on just minutes ago, and he was making… something… to put it into it.

“If our luck holds, Betsy would leave before they return,” Eliot said when she leaned on the kitchen desk to see what he was doing. He noticed her confused glance to the oven. “It’s an old trick – a little cinnamon and vanilla in a heated oven to destroy the smell of fish. It also helps when you have to pretend you were busy in the kitchen more than one hour.”

“And what are you doing?”

“Basic muffins. But it’s illusory to expect of Nate to have cups or a mould, so I’ll bake it as a thin biscuit and cut it into squares. It won’t take more than fifteen minutes.” He finished pouring the mixture, and put it in the oven.

She could only blink; he made a _cake_ in the time she needed to change. And in the same time, Hardison filled the board with printed papers, making that part of the room a busy, messy console, with papers scattered all over the bed, table and… oh shit. Papers weren’t the only thing scattered on and under the table. It was too late to hide it, Eliot followed her gaze to the soil all around the plant. Orion was nowhere to be seen, she noticed just then.

Well, almost nowhere to be seen. Eliot pointed to the other part of the room, where the bags were piled, and a small piece of white tail sticking out of one bag.

“Talk to him,” he growled, taking out his phone and dialing. Florence managed to keep her face serious. “Nate? Bring a bag of soil. Yep, you heard me. No, it doesn’t have to be a special mixt- wait, are you mocking my plant? Well, _don’t_.” He ended the call, frowning. “And you, don’t laugh.”

“I’m not,” she swallowed a chuckle, watching the hint of self–aware irony softening his mouth into a smile. “Why’s that plant so special?”

He paused, choosing his words. “He survived a murder attempt recently,” he spoke finally, almost hesitating. “He doesn’t need a homicidal… a planticidal cat to repeat it.”

“Let me guess… _you_ were the one who tried to kill him?”

“I said, don’t laugh,” he growled again, but his eyes laughed. “It’s complicated.”

How he could be so frighteningly… frightening, and so charming, both at the same time? She wanted to hear everything about the plant, but asking questions would erase that smile, and she didn’t want that.

“Maybe if you offer the plant to Orion, he would lose interest,” she continued thoughtfully. “I’m sure he’s doing it just because your reactions entertain him.”

His eyes met hers squarely for almost the first time today, after he hit her, and she tried not to show even the slightest memory of that. “So, him hiding in the bag isn’t just retreating after the mischief, it’s a carefully plotted plan that should make me investigate his doings, adding more fuel to his fun?” he said. “He is a cat. He doesn’t have a brain capable of-”

“Oh, you would be surprised by the elaborated stages and complexity of his plans,” she paused, and thought better. “You _will_ be surprised. Just wait.”

“You’re kidding, right?”

“Parker was his first enemy, she grabbed him and brought him here, remember? So she had to be his first target, and she went down fast. Now, Parker is wrapped around his claw,” she said completely serious. Then she lowered her voice into a whisper. “You’re next.”

His eyes lit up and the smile widened, but that only reminded her that she hadn't heard him laugh, not even once since she came here. And the majority of his rare smiles were just attempts to fix the mess when and after he scared her. He surely didn’t know how his smiling was easing everything around him, making it natural and comfortable, and she found herself wishing he would do it more often.

“If you’re done chatting, I could use a hand here.” Only Hardison’s call reminded her that they spent five seconds in silence, just smiling.

Eliot waited a moment before he turned to the things he had spread – intentionally – all over the kitchen, and she thought he wanted to add something more. But the frown was back.

She hurried to help Hardison, thinking about what else she could do to help grift grifters.

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***

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Betsy and Parker were in the bathroom longer than ten minutes, and Eliot could hear the sound of low voices. Hardison’s worried glares to the bathroom increased in frequency to one  every fifteen seconds, but he made no attempt to save the thief from the lecturing.

Everything was set. He even made another batch to put in the oven when this one was done, the trash can was full, the kitchen was a mess, and he could sit. That proved to be a mistake. He needed a bed, not tiresome sitting at the dining table.  The adrenaline, or better to say, the pitiful remains of it he collected for this trip, were slowly ebbing away, leaving him dizzy and exhausted. He _had_ to sit, because simply standing in the kitchen became too much for him.

He would be much better if he had let Florence drive the entire trip, but he had to know. If Knudsen decided to attack today instead of tomorrow, if they had to go somewhere, if he had to fight, if, if, if… his ability to function could mean the difference between life and death, in the most literal way possible.

“Tell me again, why we're playing this game?” he asked Hardison when the hacker came to sit with him, bringing him his laptop along with his own.

“Humor me,” Hardison muttered a reply. “I’m not in the mood for Nate’s smirking.”

He eyed the hacker – still pale, still squinting. He looked as if he needed a bed more than he did, but he held his tablet and never stopped working on it.

“Find something new?” he asked while checking the voting page; just as he thought, they were way behind in numbers.

“I’ve already printed the biggest part of those new things. The Concerned Lincoln Citizens are fighting an already lost battle, I’m afraid. I’ll have to dig deeper to find everything about  Frac mining, but what I found already ain’t pretty. And there are those Chinese trucks… all the huge yellow dump and tipper trucks are Chinese,” Hardison stretched out his arm and glanced at the tablet. “Xiamen XGMA. And many words I can’t pronounce.”

“Knudsen imported the trucks from China? Unless they are cheaper than a monthly bus ticket, that doesn’t make any sense.”

“It has to have something to do with taxes… every suspicious business decision has to have something to do with taxes.”

“But, the packages on the Ford pickup had Chinese letters on them, too.”

Hardison sighed, giving him a sideways glance. “You’re sure you didn’t stir up some Chinese cartel along with the others That Night?”

“I planned to, but didn’t have enough time,” he said shortly, leaving it to the hacker to decide if he was joking or not.

What Hardison’s conclusion was, he never knew, because Parker and Betsy came out of the bathroom. He wasn’t surprised when he saw Parker’s smile, the same one with which she entered. Betsy walked behind her and her eyes were wide open and glazed over. More than ten minutes of lecturing, heavy lecturing, and the result was a Parker who didn’t hear a word of it, happily thinking whatever she was thinking before it started.

He would grin evilly, if he didn’t know that Betsy’s frustration would spill over on him; Hardison only needed a quick vision check.  He contemplated telling her about the hacker’s vomiting, but that wouldn’t be fair.

Parker went to sit on the sofa by Florence, and just then he saw what she was doing – the small table was loaded with little bottles and strange things from the toiletry bag, and she was painting her toenails.

“Good idea,” Hardison observed them too. “She really looks like she spent two hours in the bathroom.”

“Nah, she made one mistake, and the moment she goes near him, Nate will know.”

“So?” Hardison asked. “When will you tell her?”

“I can’t. I mustn’t. The last time I mentioned it, she-” he stopped and sighed. “She’s already twitching every time I – if I start in on it again, she’ll really think I have something against her. She even asked me if I was allergic to it, in Lucille. Seriously, you tell her.”

“Tell her _what_?”

“She wrapped up wet hair – not washed hair.”

Hardison tilted his head, waiting. _Where the fuck is that brilliance when it’s needed?_

“It doesn’t _smell_ like freshly washed hair, Hardison,” he growled, pissed off because he forced him to say that.

“Ah,” Hardison grinned. “You mean, she doesn’t smell like _Garnier avocado oil and shea butter hair conditioner_?” He studiously enunciated every single word.

“What’s your point?! He will notice, he'll know she was in the rain, and not in the shower – I’m just anticipating his moves. Now go and tell her. Or do you want to deal with Betsy while she’s in shock after Parker?” he nodded to Betsy who was getting rid of the thief’s bandages, preparing another set. They were next.

Hardison got up, but looked at his laptop and sighed. “Too late, they’re here.” He turned to the girls. “ETA one minute – look busy.”

Eliot glanced over the room, checking the stage. Messy kitchen and finished cake, boards full of papers, two of them at the table with laptops and a tablet, drank coffee, drank juice, Florence finishing her nails and Parker had turned on the episode as if she was watching it, obeying Betsy’s orders. The thief even turned on the right episode, as if they had watched two in the meantime. He was skeptical when they started, but now he thought it might even work.

Until Nate and Sophie entered, carrying tons of bags, and until Nate looked over the entire room, and at them, one by one.

And smirked.

What the hell did they miss? Hardison picked up all the soil, even changed Orion’s litter box. He noticed that the cat went to meet Nate and Sophie, looking as if he was glad to see them. He got up, took George from the working table and brought him to the dining one -  keeping an eye on him seemed to be the only certain way to stop the cat from digging.

“I see you were busy,” the bastard said softly. Just then he remembered that they should be pissed because of their play, and not vice versa.

“An explanation of your doings would be nice,” he said. “Whatever you did, you could tell us.”

“Yes, you’re probably right,” Nate sighed. “It would have been easier with earbuds – but it went fine. We sent Inspector of Department of Natural Resources to visit Knudsen. He gave us a bunch of papers. Hardison, you’ll look at it later. And we shall discuss it later, thoroughly. Betsy, how are they doing? When did you arrive?”

All of them waited for her reply, and Eliot knew she paused intentionally.

“Not sure, we were drinking coffee before I checked them,” she said finally. “This one tried to avoid changing bandages by playing in the kitchen, but now he can’t escape it anymore. Unless you need him for something?”

“Can’t it wait for a few more minutes?” Sophie asked, placing two suspiciously giant bags by the table. Both of them sat, Nate glancing at their laptops.

Florence and Parker, thank god, played dead.

“Oh, it can,” Betsy smiled. “But not like you think. I have a few words for them. And you.”

Oh, shit. She held them in her hand now, they had to be silent. The storm was just postponed, she waited for all of them to gather.

“It’s good you’re here too, because it’s important that everyone knows the situation. Which isn’t so bright. First, working with electronic equipment with a concussion,” she directed her stare at Hardison who stiffened visibly, “is forbidden. _Was_ forbidden, if I recall correctly. You should’ve spent today in the dark, resting, in sensory deprivation, to avoid headaches and nausea.”

Hardison looked at the tablet and the laptop, not sure which one he should stop looking at first. Then gave up, sighed, and just looked neutrally into the table between them.

“Second, you two with stitches,” Betsy continued. “Until they are out, you’re not healed.”

He knew better than to interrupt, but Parker raised her hand. “It’s not so dangerous, Betsy, I drove the van the same night-”

“Exactly. You did that, and because of that, you’re not able to walk normally, which you might’ve been by now, if you spent those days in bed, not using your leg, leaving it to heal. You,” she finally turned to him, shaking her head, “I don’t know where to start. You do realize you should’ve been in the hospital this entire time, tied to a bed? You people seem unable to realize you have fucking _holes_ in your body, that only thin surgical sutures keep closed. Tearing it apart means prolonging your recovery, deteriorating and further endangering yourself. Gunshot wounds need time to heal, more than clean knife cuts. I’m filling you with anti- inflammatory drugs, keeping this shit under control, for now, and what do you do when I turn my back on you? You, both, went into dirty ruins, in dust, in water, and _fought_?!”

They all knew – four of them – that the anger was a reaction to this latest trip, and not to the slaughterhouse. And the worst part of it was that he completely agreed with every word she said.

“You two look as if you have a little more sense,” Betsy turned to Nate and Sophie. “At least, you seem more responsible than them. Do what you can to stop them from doing anything risky, or I don’t want to be responsible for the outcome. I can take care of them if they are here, and listening, but if anything happens, it will be a case for a hospital, not a nurse. They walk, yes… but they are not okay, not even close, and I’m tired of repeating that. This idiot has a hole in his chest, and he was _fighting_?!”

Well, that needed a reply. “And nothing happened, Betsy. I barely used my right hand, the stitches are okay, as you saw. The alternative was much worse, trust me. I didn’t do it for fun and because I wanted to. I had to.”

“Irrelevant. There’ll always be things that ought to be done. Someone has to stop you while you’re still alive.” She looked at Nate and Sophie again. “Do what you can. Because I have no more means to pour any reason into them.”

Ha, this was interesting. He studied the neutral expression on Nate’s face, wondering how he would deal with Betsy’s instructions about immobility, and his own deadline of two days that he gave him to function – and he couldn’t stop an evil grin. Any reaction of Nate's wouldn’t be important anyway, not even his decision, it was up to him to decide what to do and when. But he pretty much enjoyed his inner squirming.

But then he noticed Sophie’s worried eyes, and realized the real trouble here – she didn’t care about the case and Nate’s deadlines, she cared only about them; she would be Betsy’s most dangerous minion in this crusade.

Why couldn't these people just let him be at peace, and leave him to heal on his own? He was doing great - he knew how to heal – and he knew how to cope with delays and the troubles from it. He welcomed Nate returning to bastard mode, and he hoped this wouldn’t hinder it.

“So, Betsy, do you have any exact advice about Parker’s time in bed?” he said lightly. “Like hours, minutes, that sort of orders?”

Parker looked at him, bewildered.

“As much as you can keep her.”

“It would be the best if she’s in bed twenty-four hours a day, right?” he grinned, enjoying the thief’s discomfort immensely. “Now we have to calculate how many hours and minutes she wasn’t and see that count-”

“Stop gloating, you moron,” Betsy hissed at him, totally unimpressed. “I talked with Dr. Sciortino today. I _lied_ to him. I told him you’re doing great, and that a few days ago you started _sitting up_ in bed on your own – perhaps at the same time you were busting up the poor people in that slaughterhouse. Your first attempts to walk should be in the next few days, he said. He told me to encourage you to walk, now. And that, not this shit, is what your recovery should’ve looked like! God, if only you didn’t make that show back in the hospital when Patrick tried restraints, we could’ve been at peace!” Now it was his turn to look aghast, but he refused to whiten under her angry stare. “So, don’t push my patience too hard – you _really_ don’t want to see how it looks when it snaps. Am I making myself clear here, Eliot?”

He contemplated a few responses, but every one of them finished with a Yes, Ma’am, anyway, so he shortened it. “Yes Ma’am,” he smiled as sweet as he could.

“Don’t you eyelash at me, it’s not working. Now, bathroom. Move.”

Damn, he really didn’t need that slight sway when he got up.

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***

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The first sign that this day might not be a complete disaster was Sophie opening the door of the bathroom, and her hand reaching through the crack, with a bluish _plaid_ shirt in it. The days of daisy-holding elephant pajamas were over, finally. He mentally added _yay_ , then hated himself.

Parker would get over it, eventually.

When Betsy finally left, not softening even a bit – he reminded himself to be extra nice and careful tomorrow – he went back to the room, seriously thinking about just crashing into the bed. Voting could wait. _Everything_ could wait, he needed rest desperately. If he slept an hour or two now, he could spend the entire night just voting and talking to people, along with watching a few more episodes.

Yet, all the plans were dismissed when he noticed the odor of burnt cake, and instead of the bed, he headed for the kitchen. Five of them, _five of them_ , and they weren’t able to keep an eye on one oven?

“We were distracted.” Nate was studying Hardison’s papers. Hardison was lying down, keeping a pillow on his head, and Parker and Florence were sitting at the kitchen desk, watching Sophie trying to save the cake. Sophie was cutting the black mass into triangles. He suppressed a growl.

“Leave it, I’ll make another one for dinner. Put the second mixture in the oven, but only fifteen minutes.” He looked at all of them and sighed. “That means you have to take them out after fifteen minutes.”

“Tired of voting?” Nate casually asked, flipping the pages studiously.

“Don’t start,” he pointed to Parker. “If you want to say something, tell her.”

“Why? I didn’t spend those hours in the kitchen, I was resting as ordered. _All these hours_. Resting. Doing nothing, here in the apartment.”

“Ah.” Nate slowly turned another page, not watching them at all.

Sophie scrubbed the black parts off the cake. Florence was studying one eggshell intensively, trying to look like she had no idea of what they were talking about, and what Nate was implying. She sucked at it.

He sighed. One more minute of standing, and his legs would start to shake, he didn’t have time for this. “Okay, what did we miss?” he asked Nate directly.

“Nothing,” he grinned. “Though I would leave at least one glass of juice almost full.”

Parker hissed, but said nothing.

“Before we took Lucille, I checked the tripometer in the Challenger,” Nate smiled dryly. “And I checked it when we returned.  The mileage is the exact amount of miles to the sand excavation camp and back.”

“That’s cheating,” he objected.

“Nope, that’s anticipating,” Nate finally left the papers and looked at him. “When Hardison gets up – and he said he’ll just rest for fifteen minutes - we can exchange notes. If you don’t need-”

“No way,” Sophie came out of the kitchen and looked at him closely. “He needs to sit down, and he needs it _now_. Come with me.” He restrained himself from scooting away from her worry, and softness, and gentleness, and… arghh. Here we go. _Thank you Betsy_.

He could refuse and be rude, she wouldn’t mind, she knew him well. But he'd already done that to her once this morning, and he felt like shit because of it – snapping at her twice in one day would be too much. So he sighed, and sat at the dining table where she pointed.

She shooed Nate and his papers to the other end of it, moved George aside and pushed the laptops to Nate. Orion jumped on the table, sat and looked at George.

It was only when she brought the bags, that he realized the trap – and there was no going back.

“You’ll enjoy this,” she cooed pulling the clothes from the bags, pile after pile.

Florence and Parker turned their chairs from the kitchen toward the dining table, and he could _feel_ their smiles.

So he put his elbows on the table, rested his head in his hand, and prepared himself for something that no living man could’ve been prepared for.

Orion cheerfully jumped onto one pile, and started to purr.

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	27. Chapter 27

Chapter 27

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Eliot said goodbye to resting when Hardison got up, and Sophie still hadn’t finished with the clothes. He was lucky she didn’t make him try on every one of them; catching a bullet had some advantages, after all. With the cargo pants and the simple gray shirt he chose from the pile he felt almost human again, so it was worth it.

Hardison, who obviously tried to take Betsy’s orders seriously, pulled the boards covered with papers up to the dining table, instead of displaying his notes on the screens, while the rest of the team and Florence sat around the table.

Orion slept peacefully in the middle of the table, on the piled shirts. He envied him, intensively. He was tired to the bone, and keeping his eyes opened needed concentration; though, the most beautiful pieces Sophie saved for the end – soft pink and something _flowery_ – shot terror through him and enabled him to straighten up. Flee or fight instincts sometimes weren’t so bad.

He got up and started the prep for pasta for six; standing in the kitchen and concentrating on food would keep him functioning a little more. Nate, surprisingly, bought everything he'd listed. He put the bag of soil by the bag of almonds on the kitchen floor, and spent some time looking them, side by side. He stopped when he felt Sophie’s eyes searching his face.

Sophie offered to cut another round of cake and he let her do it only because refusing would be noticed and remembered. Triangles, _again_.

“The muffin cups are in the upper left cupboard, behind the hidden empty bottles,” she whispered, quietly, not disturbing Hardison’s speech. She perched herself on the kitchen counter chair, keeping an eye on his doings – on him and his moves - and at the same time watching the dining table.

When Hardison played the recording of Florence’s interview on his laptop, he hoped she would go over there to watch it, but she just listened.

“You waved Florence, _his target_ , right in front of Knudsen’s eyes?!” Nate sounded as if he was still deciding if he should he be pissed off, or laugh.

Hardison dived into a long explanation, slowly turning it to the Concerned Lincoln Citizens, and Nate let him do that. Yet, it was clear that he wasn’t happy with the new aspect which he had to calculate into the situation.

So what? They weren’t happy with their sneaking away either. Eliot made double mixture of cake, the third one, and divided it in halves. In one half he mixed cereal, in the other one gummy frogs, trying to hide a grimace of disgust. The grifter’s small smile showed him that it didn’t go unnoticed.

Instead of scowling at her, which he knew would only provoke another gentle smile, he put the onions five inches from her elbow, and started to cut them very slowly, very studiously.

He managed exactly three things – she eeped and ran away to the table; he almost cut himself because he couldn’t see shit through his own tears, and Parker straightened in her chair in alarm.

“What are you doing?” Her voice was high, silencing Hardison’s full report about the barbeque near the mine.

“Bolognese and Puttanesca; both done in less than half an hour. Why?”

“Your chopping is fifty percent slower than the last time when you chopped fennel. It should’ve been quicker by today.”

He sighed, then removed the onions, and chopped the celery at usual speed. “Better?”

“Better,” she lowered herself again, still narrow-eyed and suspicious.

He wiped his eyes with a bare hand, soaking them in onion juice, and cursed silently. This day, disastrous from the very morning, seemed to continue in the same vein.

The last bit of proof was a wave of very nasty dizziness that hit him when he bent to the lower cabinet to grab olive oil – when he straightened up, he had to lean with both hands on the counter to keep himself from falling. He had to do something unheard of – he took a tall chair and brought it _inside_ the kitchen.

Cursing was useless, especially silent cursing, but it felt good.

Hardison finished the explanation, and started with the things that were new to everybody.

“I’m starting to like this Knudsen guy,” Hardison said. “His dealings are elegant and sneaky. Those air pollution monitors he donated to the DNR? They are very good and very useful, everybody would agree on that. Accuracy is very important, and scientists can analyze the contents mechanically and chemically and produce other numbers to show the components and amounts of the particles in the bag. You see, even the most sophisticated models are nothing more than vacuum cleaners that suck a measured amount of air and dust through a HEPA - High Efficiency Particulate Air - filter over a week or so and then weigh the bag.”

“Are they placed in isolate locations? Open to sabotage of any sort?” Nate asked.

“No need to sabotage them,” Hardison said. “The Concerned Lincoln Citizens have explanations in their pamphlet. The monitors tell – accurately – everything that scientists need to know. But, here are the problems. Number one: the pile of dust collected is a total over time - a week- and is thus an average. Are we saying that during four days of the week the mine can really exceed air pollution limits and standards and then on the other three days cut way back, so the average number meets the specifications?”

“If they are monitoring it themselves, calculation is very easy, they can always stay below the limit. And citizens are under the heavy poisons,” Nate quietly said.

“Number two,” Hardison went on. “Assuming that the mine had a problem that their own sensors did not detect, with clouds of nearly invisible pollution, the DNR report could be as much as two weeks behind in alerting citizens – because it takes one week to collect one bag, and at least one week to analyze it and make a report.”

“And two weeks, in the case of severe poisoning, can be lethal,” Sophie almost whispered.

Eliot put the pasta into the boiling water, and spiced the meat ready to be put in with the already frying onions. Yet, he watched Nate, his face that became emptier with every word Hardison said. He knew what that closing meant. He’d seen it before.

“Number three?” Nate said, his voice fell further.

Hardison exhaled and licked his lips. “Number three… the most important one… is that those monitors he provided don’t… The collection bag or filter does not collect particles smaller than two and a half microns. If you are concerned about air quality, the particles smaller than two and a half microns are exactly the ones you should be interested in since they easily pass deep into the lungs and cause real problems. Since these tiny particles pass right through the bag, they are not collected or weighed. Knudsen's mine is a Frac sand mine – there's a huge demand for silica sand right now – and that means Silicosis. With the two-week warning time line, and the possibility of huge amounts of pollution, we're talking about many soon-to-be cases of _a_ _cute_ silicosis, which is lethal. The Concerned Lincoln Citizens are downwind from the mine. Their houses. Their schools.”

And that was it. Eliot clearly saw the mind switch in Nate's brain, and heard the click when he set it to 'destroy'.

_Calm down_ , he said to himself, _there’s nothing to worry about right now_ – dealing with Knudsen might bring his mine down with him, too, without the need to stretch any action. This all still could stay within the normal limits, without becoming a war.

Fear and worry clenched into a leaden weight in his belly, and he tried to even his breathing. He needed fucking meditation just to stop thinking.

“And remember, I was talking only about air pollution,” Hardison added with hesitation. “Water pollution, with the chemicals used in drilling water, and radiation and the different shit that's a byproduct of it, I haven't studied yet.”

“Take your time,” Nate said softly, his mind visibly already working at full speed. “This is the entire conversation with Knudsen, see if you can use something.”

Nate played Sophie’s talk with Knudsen, and Eliot’s blood ran cold and boiled at the same time.

Don Lazzara was there. Don Lazzara _saw_ Sophie.

He only heard two sentences from the man That Night, but his voice was carved deep into his mind – calm and slow, so polite it was almost sweet; much more dangerous than Villacorta.  The Chilean was a businessman – the Italian was deadly. Don Lazzara held the power of many generations in the line, and his voice carried it, he could feel it.

“Please don’t tell me he was there.” His voice was a barely audible whisper, but it cut through their comments and stopped them. “ _Please_ , don’t tell me you sent Sophie to him, to _see_ her.”

“We didn’t know he would be there,” Nate said leaning back in his chair, tenting his fingers together, watching him.

He cut the last tomato with one move and pushed it aside, turning to the table. His anger boiled. “Maybe you would know, if you took us with you, if you told Hardison to track him and to check out the meeting place!”

“And maybe not,” Nate tilted his head a little. “If you have an idea how a grifter could grift a mark without the mark actually seeing her, do share.”

“Don Lazzara is not our mark! Don Lazzara is something we all agreed to avoid at any cost!” Just as he said that, he became aware of _all_ thefuckups they were heading into. “You planned to take him down too, all this time?! After all that crap in the beginning, when you said this would only be an investigation?! Helping the police find evidence? What the hell are you doing, Nate?” His voice was more yelling than snarling by now, but he couldn’t care less.

One corner of Nate’s mouth turned up, in a light, careless smile, and his vision went red.

Sophie was back by his side in a second. He saw her only as a blurred motion in his way, until she laid her hand on his hand still holding the knife. And kept it there.

“Eliot, I took everything I came for, there wasn’t any real danger.” Her soft voice penetrated the hiss of blood pumping in his ears.

“Back off, Sophie,” he snarled. He heard the fear in her recorded voice, they scared her. And they were alone there, because this idiot was spinning out of control again, _now_ , of all times. “This has to stop.”

He had no idea what Nate heard in his voice, but he got up in one swift move. His eyes were burning. “What, exactly, has to stop, Eliot?” he said coming closer.

“You can’t take down Don Lazzara.” He tried to gather all the thoughts reeling in his mind. “And you can’t go against the Frac mine. Not now, Nate!”

“But we can take down Knudsen? Is he a comfortably small mob boss for you?” That crooked smile appeared again, driving him completely nuts. What the hell he was trying to do? If this was just another poke at him, this time he might learn not to play with things he couldn’t control.

“You used Sophie on both of them as an inspector, and let them see her! Knudsen’s men saw her in the corridor, she’s burned from now on. The goons know about me and Hardison – and I wouldn’t be surprised if some of them saw you in the C4 building as a police inspector when you talked to Brewer! We were running out of possibilities even before we started proper recon. And we're crippled. Going after them, all of them, is fucking suicide.” He had to stop before he had to catch his breath, and he pushed away Sophie’s hand. “Even if I’m in the best condition, it would be too dangerous, too damn risky! Now, it’s madness!”

“Do I look like a madman, Eliot?”

“We can pull off this Season Six Job – maybe. We have to take down mobsters and Knudsen, so we’ll do it, or we’ll die. That's two jobs, Nate, at the same time, two. Fucking. Jobs! We’ve never done that before, not even when we all were at our best. I can’t protect you! And now, as if doing two jobs isn’t bad enough, isn’t _deadly_ enough, you’re going after the Frac mine and Don Lazzara!!”

“We’re not talking about four jobs, Eliot. We are talking about the center of gravity. About one point, exactly.”

He stared at him.

Then he looked the rest of the team, frozen and silent. He would get them all killed, they would follow him in whatever crazy and suicidal plan he went with.

But he wouldn’t. Not this time.

They couldn’t do it without a hitter, they couldn’t even _start_ that madness without him.

“You’ve lost your fucking mind,” he said quietly, with effort. He slowly put away the knife and wiped his hands. “Move away,” he snarled when Nate came one step closer. That stopped him.

He threw the rag on the counter, took his keys, and left.

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***

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The first half an hour he managed to drive without a single thought, mind clear, entirely blocking out the whole conversation, forcing himself to calm down. His control was better, he could do that now; control over the body and the mind were equally important, one without the other was useless.

The only thing he couldn’t control – and he tried, he fucking _tried_ – were feelings. And that was trouble. Anger and fear were spinning inside, feeding each other until they melted into one, familiar: despair. Helplessness.

At that point he gave up, turned west and started to speed up, keeping Boston at his back.

He had no idea what he was doing and that drove him crazy. He wasn’t used to irrational behavior, he didn’t do that. He was the rational and steady one. Or he used to be.

No, really, _what_ he was doing?

Of all the crazy things he could do, this one was perhaps the most futile. This wasn’t solving anything, wasn’t changing things. And the facts were cruel and cold.

He couldn’t leave them.

Even now – and he'd been driving less than an hour – he was restless because he wasn’t _there_ , with them, because they were alone in the apartment marked on a mobster’s list as the last known trace of Florence, and no fucking control could stop all the disaster scenarios from playing out in his mind. He couldn’t control himself, but he needed to keep the situation under control, that was helping. When he was there, things seemed to be covered.

If they weren’t already in danger and if a client’s life wasn’t threatened, he would leave. Without a hitter, they would be forced to stay put – Nate would be forced to stop – and it would pay off in the long term… but leaving them now would mean only letting them get killed.

They could pull off Season Six. If he got himself together – and he was still trying to make himself function – they might be able to take Knudsen down. He already dreaded _that_. And there wasn’t any word, any feeling that could describe what he felt about going after Don Lazzara and the Frac mine at the same time. Except despair.

He was supposed to protect them. To keep them alive from mobsters. And he had to bring a fucking chair into the kitchen, because he wasn’t able to _stay_ on his feet.

The speedometer showed 120. His heartbeat was catching up.

Well, this was functioning. Rage and fear made him more alive again, more concentrated. He would pay for this, very soon, but for now he felt the old synchronicity of the mind and body, the sharpness that he missed for so long. It wasn’t important that even his shoulders were trembling from the effort, and the buzzing in his head went into an alarming frequency – speed was keeping him on the edge. The fall would be nasty, and quick, but now he _needed_ this no matter what cost he’d pay.

His mind and body were occupied with this concentration, but the damn feelings couldn’t be stopped.

Nate had been joking when he said that he was insecure and scared – but now, without a doubt, and with a painful clarity, he realized how right Nate really was. With only one objection – he wasn’t insecure and scared. He was ruined and terrified.

He almost lost control of the car when it hit him, and for a few seconds he was fighting to stay on the road – no traffic around him, thank god – but the anger and fear were still burning their way out and he pressed the gas pedal again.

Yes, he _was_ ruined and terrified – of course he was. Gunshots and dark threw him back into deranged ruin; his right arm was useless, he couldn’t allow himself to even stretch it out completely because of the stitches; he could walk short distances, with a lot of resting; he couldn’t force himself even once to look at the passenger’s seat, scared of whom he might see there. Exhaustion was turning his mind off, a black out was dangerous for everybody near him. Weak, unreliable, still weary and still half mad.

Betsy was right. Any other person would be sitting up in bed right now, happy with the progress, looking forward to the first steps. With a walker.

And yet, he had to decide – now – if they would have a hitter or not. _Now_. Simple as that.

The roaring of the machine was nothing compared to the roaring in his brain. No pressing the pedal could help to clear that mess, to help him solve that shit. To clear out all that garbage.

What the hell could he do? What the hell Nate was doing?

He laughed. Fuck, the last time he laughed with this choking pain in his heart was before Barclay. Then, the decision to force himself to live just a little longer seemed easier than this one now – to force himself to keep _them_ alive. To function. To help. To protect them.

_Ruined and terrified_.

He was so absorbed in the turmoil that he only then became aware of the hills and woods all around him – no traffic, no people, just the roaring and screeching of tires. He left all the main roads, choosing smaller ones, until he ended up on a narrow path through the woods. He was alone – finally, completely alone. Free to think, to feel, to listen to his own messages and signs.

And all led to only one thing, one truth.

The difference between their life and death, was _him_.

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***

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Responsibility was a bitch. So was reality. Together, working as a pair, they seemed very determined to make this as hard as they could, adding aggravating circumstances to his every thought. He was so tired of fighting his own shit, and the shit that surrounded him.

He was tired, by now, of even pressing the gas and holding the wheel, and his concentration couldn’t follow the speed. He slowed down when he started to drift away, driving on auto pilot, not really seeing anything.

He couldn’t win this fight, not in this condition.

He remembered what he had told Florence _. No winning. Just refusing to lose._

And just like that, in a second and without warning, he knew what he had to do.

The only thing he could do to start functioning again, was to _continue_ to be ruined and terrified. To stop fighting it, trying to win. That was futile and it would only exhaust him more. He needed his entire strength for other things, other fights. To defeat _himself_ , he only needed a decision.

This time, when he laughed, there wasn’t any pain in that sound.

He fought those feelings, and tried to escape, and the more he struggled, the stronger their grasp was, more devastating. He had beat his own body and forbid it to die – he had analyzed it and learned everything he needed to put it under control. He could do it again, with a much stronger enemy this time – but that enemy was within his reach now. He could be used, as he used that damn morphine pump, studied it and made it work for him; this enemy – him, ruined and terrified – could be sectioned into pieces until it came under his control. That would be enough to avoid losing, and he needed nothing more for now.

He slowed down more, as his mind slowed down too, until the roaring in his head became just a soft whisper. Keeping his eyes open became a heavy effort, falling off the adrenaline high hit him in seconds.

He should go back. He had no idea how long he had been driving, where he was, and how long he could stay awake before he crashed down. No earbud, no phone. He wasn’t used to making such mistakes, dammit. Weariness was blurring everything around him, and he removed his foot from the gas pedal, barely aware of it.

He turned the car off the road and stopped it, turning the engine off.

It was so strange to hear the silence again. He could hear only his own breathing – still uneven and ragged as if he'd ran – but the calmness in his mind finally matched the calmness around him. Mistakes weren’t important anymore – only his reaction to them was. And that was the only difference he needed.

When he managed to unclench his grasp on the wheel, his hands were shaking, again, badly… but this time he just smiled. The almonds had been waiting for them all this time.

Yet almonds couldn’t fix the weariness, couldn’t do anything to the hole in his lung, and make it healed. Just to try, he slowly and carefully reached with his right arm, forcing himself to turn to the passenger’s seat.

_The empty seat. No Tapia. No Alejandro_.

Before he touched the back seat, the move painfully pulled all the muscles in his chest and shoulder and he had to stop. _Easy, just easy…_ it’d come in time. He only had to wait. Every move of his arm became heavy effort, but this time he just observed it, neutrally, without freaking out; gravity was pulling him with seemingly triple strength and…

Gravity. _Fuck_.

He slowly leaned forward and rested his forehead on the wheel.

The center of the gravity. _That bastard_. Now he knew what Nate was trying to do.

That might even work, was his last thought before everything around him became gray and blurred, and finally black.

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	28. Chapter 28

Chapter 28

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***

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The first things Eliot checked when he regained consciousness, without opening his eyes, were the sounds. Chirping, the soft rustle of leaves when a breeze moved through the trees, and the very, very distant sound of traffic, coming from behind him, where he left the main road.

The scent of warm soil had a trace of vanilla in it.

He opened his eyes and slowly straightened up, feeling like everything around him still moved a little. Then he looked at the pair of legs in sneakers that were swinging in front of him, and realized that the Challenger _was_ rocking a bit.

His movement was like a motion detector going off, she felt it, and Parker turned upside down, now her head was hanging in front of him. The dizziness ran wild and he squinted.

“If you keeping making these cereal muffins, Betsy won’t have to know about this little trip of yours,” she said with her mouth full. _Okay, one good thing, they remembered to turn the oven off._

He slowly turned his head to the left, to Lucille parked only few a meters away – he didn’t hear it coming – and four of them lined up, and watching him. The side doors were open, Sophie and Florence were sitting on the floor. _Another good thing – they didn’t leave Florence alone in the apartment._

“When…?” he started, his voice strangely uneven.

“A minute ago,” Parker cheerfully said. “We checked if you were alive, and decided to let you come together on your own.”

A wise move. But she knew how to speed it up, sending vibrations to his subconsciousness; her leg swinging wasn’t accidental.

“How?” He left his phone at the apartment, they couldn’t track him.

“I never – okay, rarely – make the same mistake twice,” Hardison said, pointing behind his back. In the dark inside of Lucille he saw his monitor, all dark except of the one giant green dot. He squinted and sharpened his vision, focusing, and the blurry giant dot became many, many little green dots in one cluster. That wasn’t _one_ fucking tracking device in his car. There was more than ten of them. He imagined all the time he would spend searching for them and cleaning it, and moaned, thrusting his head back on the wheel.

“Why?” he muttered.

“Are you trying to write an article, Eliot?” Nate asked dryly. “You need  the _who and where_ to complete your inquiry. _What_ , we shall keep for ourselves, this time.”

He turned his head on the wheel and looked at him through the hair that fell over his eyes. And said nothing.

“So, _what_ is the result of this?” Nate asked.

If nothing else, Nate had that irritating ability to sum all shit up. He continued to look at him, trying to choose his words. “You can’t guarantee that the center of the gravity would suck it all down, and you know that.”

“There’s no guarantee in anything we do. _You_ know that.”

“This time is different. This time we can all die,” he said. Nate just raised his eyebrows, so he collected all his thoughts and continued, “Where are you with your Plans? Which letter are you on, _now_?”

Nate smiled. “All of them.”

Well, that shouldn’t calm his fears, but it did. It wasn’t like he had any choice now, anyway. Leaving them for real was never an option, it was only a matter of deciding _who_ , exactly, would stay with them.

Then, continuing with that _staying_ , he remembered the third thing that wasn’t so good – George was left with Orion, alone, for the second time in one day. He should’ve brought him with him, but his leaving the apartment with a plant tucked under his arm would be maybe, just maybe, a little weird. He shook that off and took a deep breath.

“I need to know something,” Florence said suddenly before he could say anything. He looked at her, just then noticing she had something on her head. No time to dry her hair, he realized, so she wrapped it up with something dark. “Nate, what, why, how-” she stopped under Nate’s smile, and took another turn. “What’s going on? What plans, what letters, how many jobs? And why? Why Don Lazzara, what does he have to do with everything, except his nephew-”

“If we try to take down only Knudsen, we would end up with all of Dvorak Security, the Frac mine mobsters, and Don Lazzara’s men after us. Everything here is connected, Knudsen, Don Lazzara, the mine… we can’t touch one without stirring the others. Eliot is right – we can’t do four jobs at the same time - we can pull this off only if we find the center of  gravity between everything that I counted. Find a way to destroy it so that it will pull all the others after it, when it, or he, falls.”

She stared at him without reply and he couldn’t blame her. Nate sounded like a lunatic to an untrained ear. Sometimes, even to those who were trained, he added to himself.

Instead of answering that, she sighed, reached somewhere behind her in the dark, and returned to the light with a muffin. What, they prepared for a fucking picnic? Though, this was more like a safari – the next thing he should expect was them trying to feed the wild life they chased, cornered and caught. He slowly pushed himself from the wheel, trying to decide what to do now.

Nate was still watching him – _watching_ him – and he knew why he searched his face so studiously, what answers he sought.

He returned his gaze, and gave one small nod.

For a moment, just for one second, he asked himself how much of their fight was intentional, and if Nate pushed it back in the apartment, forcing him to the edge more quickly than his two day deadline could… Yet, when Nate returned his nod, nothing on his face showed whether he was pleased or not, so he dismissed it. He was too paranoid.

It was time to finish this. He sighed. “If you don’t mind, we could-”

“Forget it – you’re not driving back,” Nate shook his head. “Sophie will drive your car behind us, and you will rest, and pray that Betsy don’t find out about this. Ever.”

He pointed to the roof and the sound of munching.

“And about that,” Nate added with a sigh, opening his door.

He eyed Lucille; four meters distance. Nate was close to offering him a hand, so he simply stood up. That was an old trick for small distances – to start and go before the slow brain decided if the body was able to perform the necessary steps or not. And it worked this time too.

He was in the corner behind driver’s seat at the moment his brain told him, finally, that he couldn’t walk, and he almost smiled – but that smile froze when he saw what, exactly, was covering Florence’s head. She had _his_ beanie. Who knows where she found it, somewhere in the apartment, and used it in a hurry. He opened his mouth to say something about it, but she saw he was looking at the cap and she visibly stiffened, going into defensive mode in a single second. What the hell was with that woman and her hair, why was every innocent remark, even a glance, a deadly insult? He averted his eyes, sighed and said goodbye to his beanie. He should ask Sophie about it… neutrally and around the bush.

He glanced at Sophie, met her eyes watching this exchange, and quickly changed his mind.

Sophie whispered something to Florence, and she nodded in return.

“I’ll stay here, Florence will drive the Challenger,” the grifter smiled at him gently, not showing any intention of going to sit in the front seat.

He drew back from her piercing eyes as far as he could, and contemplated fainting.

Yet, she didn’t try to talk to him at all, she just sat there leaving him alone, only offering company in case he wanted it. And they finally started, followed by the other car. ~~~~

Nate was driving, Parker was destroying muffins beside him, and Hardison – again – tried to follow Betsy’s orders, turning off everything that blinked. The hacker sat at the side table with the screens, sadly looking into their dead, dark gloom.

The half darkness was beautiful. For a change, nobody talked and he relaxed, letting himself be lulled by the driving and darkness, closing his eyes. Sitting on the metal floor could hardly be called resting, but even that helped.

He had a lot of things to think about.

He was sure he could stay awake the entire trip, but the next time he opened his eyes, the sounds of traffic surrounded them, not the woods anymore… and Nate was saying something. There was tension in his voice, and that stirred him from drifting away.

“Maybe she just lost us in a crowd, and she’ll catch up,” Hardison replied. “I’m pulling up the surveillance program again, and I’ll tell you in a minute… yep, she’s way back behind us. Just slow down.”

For a minute Lucille was gently gliding through the traffic, and then Hardison spoke again.

“She stopped, the Challenger hasn’t moved at all since I spotted her.”

They all waited.

“Nope, this wasn't just a red light in traffic. She definitely stopped. Nate, turn back.”

Lucille continued at the same speed, in the same direction for a few seconds.

“Nate?”

Instead of turning the van back, Nate stepped on the pedal and lurched forward, in the same direction. They all bowled over in the back, and Eliot barely kept himself from slamming his head into Hardison’s table.

“Whoa! Thank you!” Hardison yelled. “What are you doing?”

A loud bang was the only answer for a few seconds; Nate slammed his fist into the dash. “She left the Challenger. Took a taxi,” his words were cut through gritted teeth.

“What the hell… I’ll track her phone. Jesus, people, I’ll really glue the tracking devices all over you, you’re-”

“No need to, I know where she’s going,” Nate said firmly, pressing the pedal even harder. “And I know why. I should’ve known, I should’ve predicted this after her questions!”

Eliot slowly got up. Parker gave him her seat in front without a word, and he sat, looking at Nate’s profile and tightly pressed lips.

“What’s going on?”

“We can only hope we can get there before her to stop her… Or she’s dead.”

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***

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Florence followed Lucille until they reached the highway again, slowly increasing the distance, letting other cars slip between them, one by one. When they reached Boston it was even easier, but she kept herself in sight, not wanting to alarm Nate too early. From Lucille, higher than most vehicles, he could still see her way behind.

It was one thing to let them help her. It was completely different to let them go war with the Boston mafia because they got too deeply involved, so there was nothing else left for them to do if they wanted to stay alive. And basically, that was what was happening right now. Now, they had no other choice left.

Her first thought was the police, but she dismissed it at once. She couldn’t explain hardly anything, she couldn’t mention their burglary at the C4 building, Knudsen’s mobsters in their corridor, the slaughterhouse, nothing. All of that would turn the attention of police to Leverage Inc, and that was almost as dangerous as the mobsters were for them. No, no police.

Running away also wasn’t an option, they would still be targets. She had to find some way to stop this, completely, before they got themselves more deeply involved in the mess, and started dying, one by one.

She knew their actions would be dangerous, but only today when Eliot listed everything that was against them, she realized that they could pay much bigger price than anybody expected. Well, except Eliot; he seemed to know exactly how deadly Nate’s decision was. And if their protector thought it was insane, a man who was trained to notice danger, that was it.

When he left the apartment she thought that put an end to their jobs, that he stopped Nate from further plans. Then she saw the relief in his eyes back in the woods when Nate said that he was working on all the plans at the same time. That meant something, something important – but from her point of view, it only meant they would start whatever they planned. And that he simply agreed to die with them – exactly as she feared, no other choices left - because that was the only outcome she could see, when she watched them. Only two of them could stay on their feet without trouble, for god’s sake, and the one who was supposed to protect them from killers was half dead.

She left the Challenger when she saw an empty taxi, and before anyone in Lucille noticed she wasn’t following them any more, she would be far away. Hardison was now the most dangerous of them. She turned her phone off, hoping he didn’t put something on her clothes.

She gave the driver the address, leaned back in the seat and closed her eyes.

She was frightened. And she had less than ten minutes to think of what to say and how to say it.

When the taxi left her in front, she checked the escape routes first, trying to remember everything around the building. There was a taxi stop about four hundred meters down the street – the shortest way to get to it was through the parking lot with a few white armored vehicles with the dark green Dvo-Sec logo on them.

She pulled the beanie lower over her eyes, and went into the large, lit, busy lobby.

“Tell Mr. Knudsen that Florence McCoy is here and wants to see him,” she said to a girl behind the desk, and smiled to a camera above the girl’s head.

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***

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Three men preceded Knudsen’s arrival. One of them was the first one that tried to break into her apartment, who held Sophie. He was _smiling_ at her. When they came closer, she recognized one more – one of the Red Guards from the C4 building; she remembered how worried Eliot was when he studied them on the live feed. The killers. All of them were smiling at her, and fear raced up and down her spine. They took a stand, one by one, at the opposite wall of the lobby, and their eyes, strangely eager, followed her steps as she slowly walked away from them.

This was fucking surreal, she thought, watching Knudsen approaching her – watching the man who tried to kill her. If he felt the same, if he was startled by his victim casually coming to his doorstep, his face didn’t show it. The polite businessman mask was firmly in place.

“Dear Mrs. McCoy!” Knudsen’s face showed real delight – he spread his arms in a welcoming gesture. “I must say I’m honored and perplexed by your visit. It’s so rare for famous authors to visit the small people who work for their security, and I’m grateful for that.”

The words were pouring from his mouth in a smooth wave, absolutely honest. He was damn good. His smile, charming, sincere and even little embarrassed, was really reflecting in his pale eyes. If she didn’t know better, she would surely be deceived.

“We are, what a coincidence, just testing a new scanner. You will do us the honor and be the first of our clients to test it?” He waved to his men and the Red Guard, blond, tall, with a boyish smile, stepped forward and swept them both. “We’ll soon make it a part of the standard equipment,” he continued when his man shook his head, telling him she wasn’t wired.

She should’ve payed more attention when she listened to Sophie’s conversation with him. _He was dangerous_. She put her hands in her pockets to hide the trembling. These things looked so easy when written.

“I wanted to talk with you in my office, but I assume you would feel more comfortable here, in the open lobby, enjoying the many people around you,” Knudsen continued with a little nod. “I can tell you everything you want to know about your _security_ ,” he paused. Smiled. “Which Dvorak Security provides for your company.”

She nodded, answering his real message.

“You work hard, Mr. Knudsen, I couldn’t not notice that,” she said. “Your efforts, concerning my security, are well known to me, all of them. And I know how important that is for you.”

“I’m glad we understand each other.” He took a small step back and waved his hand gallantly. “Walk with me, around this secure, people-filled lobby, while we talk, will you?”

She took one long breath, invisible, she hoped, smiled at him with confidence, and followed him. She had to turn her back to the three goons and it felt awful, but they weren’t alone. He simply couldn’t kill her in front of all those people. Even a mafia-driven security company must have had some normal employees, who weren’t involved in their nastier jobs.

“You have something, maybe some idea, how to further _improve_ your security, Mrs. McCoy?” he asked lightly, not watching her. His voice was quiet this time. “I have to say, I admire your move. It’s really sad that due to exception-”

“Cut the crap, will you?” She stopped, and he had to stop walking too, and turn to her. His eyes swirled around this time, checking their surroundings. “What the hell do you think you’re doing, and how do you think you will get away with murdering a famous author? Because of what? A crappy-” she broke off, remembering at the last second that she shouldn’t tell him she knew about the Ford pickup keys, “Winslow’s crappy recording about my show? Do you know how irrelevant that is to me? And do you really think I’m an idiot who would go whining to the police? You work in the movie and TV business for how long, and you still haven’t learned the rules?”

“You’re insinuating the strangest things,” he said carefully.

“I’m not a danger to you – I don’t give a flying fuck about Winslow, your business, your killers… all I want is for this to stop. I’ll give you that USB, do with it what you want, it has no value to me. I won’t go to police, you’re safe. Going to police is the worst thing I can do, and the last – I don’t need any scandals now, when I’m working on a new big project. That would ruin me.”

He stayed silent, watching her.

“That’s just a little hard for me to believe,” he said finally.

“That's your problem. I’m not a fool. I have a sealed statement which will be opened in case of my suspicious death, that accuses you and Dvorak Security. So just stop. We both don’t need trouble, and this situation is stupid. Why didn’t you come and talk to me first, before you just decided to kill me? It would spare us all lots of trouble. And innocent people wouldn’t be involved.”

“I still don’t know what you’re trying to say, except I’m confused by those accusations,” he said.

“Of course you don’t,” she smiled. “We understand each other. My offer, Mr. Knudsen: I don’t hold grudges. I’m not interested in your business, and as far as I’m concerned, after this conversation, I’ll delete you from my mind, just like that. As if nothing happened and we’ve never met. During the day you’ll receive a small package with the USB. What can you give me in return?”

She tried not to hold her breath while he thought.

“Okay, I’ll pretend and play this strange little game, as if it’s real,” he said, and she had to admire him avoiding saying anything suspicious – he wasn’t just talking to her, at the same time he was talking to the police, lawyers, judge and jury, just in case. “Your offer really turns this situation into something new for me – something positive. As a gentleman first, I feel obliged to return the same. Though, pretending I’ve never met such a beautiful lady won’t be the easiest thing for me,” he widened his smile.

She lifted her chin and met his eyes.

“Be more specific,” she said calmly.

“Although I don’t understand why you think I tried to kill you, to ease your worries, that is not an option anymore. Your offer is, really, good enough to stop that. Is that specific enough?”

She stared at him.

He wasn’t a bit unnerved. This went as if she had written his replies in advance – his agreement was too quick, too smooth, too… false. And yet, she was painfully aware how her speech, though it sounded powerful in her head, in the taxi, was weak and childish. If she came up with this dialogue for an episode, her own writers would send her to get them coffee and food while they tried to save it.

“Yes, it is,” she said finally, because there was nothing else she could say.

Of course he wasn’t unnerved, she just spared him a lot of troublesome searching. He would nod and agree to everything, smiling all the way, now that she was within his reach.

Sometimes – but only sometimes, unfortunately – she had to remind herself that writing a script, and living real life, had different set of laws. The real world didn’t function on logic and reason. This man couldn’t see the advantages of her offer, it wasn’t in his mindset.

They’d walked slowly to the other end of the lobby, and were now ready to turn and go back. She glanced around her. This part was not covered by a camera. The only one she saw, looking over the receptionist to the main doors, had recorded his warm welcome to her. The rest of the conversation nobody heard. He would probably make the same show when he let her out, and the police would have proof she left the building alive, in a good mood, after a very pleasant conversation with the owner. He would be clean.

Three men were still leaning on the wall on the opposite side. But someone unfamiliar took the place of the blond Red Guard. He was gone.

She maybe, just maybe, had a chance to reach the taxi stop – they wouldn’t risk killing her at their doorstep, not now that she'd came so close to them. They could allow themselves to give her a little distance.

“I will go now,” she said evenly, hiding the clenching of her hands in her pockets. Turning her phone on seemed irrelevant now; she was in deep shit, and they would be late in tracking her, anyway.

“You can go freely,” Knudsen smiled with the same, empty smile, escorting her back to the lobby. “If you want a tour through the building, we can arrange it for the next time.”  After that, the smile almost became real, but the thoughts behind it made it terrifying. She bit back a reply, watching the sudden turmoil behind reception desk – the girl was explaining something to two men in technician suits. “No, it’s not in our system, it looks like it’s smashed. Change it, that one covers the entire parking lot-” she turned to them and froze when she saw Knudsen. “Oh, it’s nothing, Mr. Knudsen – just one camera out of function.”

Something in her head shifted.

“I am soooo glad I found you here!” Sophie’s voice now froze both her and Knudsen, and they turned to the doors in an identical move.

“Inspector Lohman!” This time, it took some effort to put a smile on Knudsen’s face. “How can I help you?”

“This is not official,” Sophie continued with that strange voice, but her smile was even stranger – she stared at Knudsen, eyes wide open and full of barely hidden admiration. “I was just passing by, and I thought, there’s this fine young man, I might ask him to join me for a cup of coffee… are you busy?”

He glanced at her. “I… well, in fact, I’m right in the middle of something…” Florence could clearly see how he tried to concentrate on the possibly dangerous inspector while in the middle of an attempted murder, and his casual mask showed the first cracks.

“Of course, I understand.” Sophie then looked at her, judging her with a frown as if she was a threat, but then her face beamed again. “Oh. My. God! Florence McCoy!” She stepped closer and took both her hands, shaking them. “I’m a huge fan of yours, I’ve never missed an episode of your show!”

“Thank you,” Florence cleared her throat, feeling the earbud in her palm. “Thank you so much, Miss…”

“Lohman. Olivia Lohman.” Sophie turned to Knudsen. “Some other time then? I’ll call you,” she eye-lashed him and took her hand. “I’m soooo glad I finally get a chance to know you – you must join me, I have soooo many questions to ask you…” her hand was firmly wrapped around her forearm, and Florence let her escort her to the door. She pulled the beanie down, using the move to put the earbud in her ear. She even managed to look at Knudsen with confused eyes before they both stepped out of the building.

“They are all around the building, in positions, waiting for you,” Sophie’s voice went normal, with a just a hint of hurry. “Go to the underground garage. Shake off my hand and push me away, turn around and go, quickly, to the parking lot. Then run down.”

“The underground garage? It’s a kill box, only one exit-” She pushed Sophie as told.

“Dark enough to hide you,” Sophie nodded to the streets and lawns that surrounded them. She was right. Here, her every step was visible from hundreds of meters, there was no way she could avoid being seen.

Do what they tell you, without questions, she remembered her decision from before. She did what she was told and hurried in the given direction. The tall vans would provide good protection from sight, and the half darkness would give her a chance.

She stopped only a second to assess the situation. The garage was huge, clearly not only for Dvorak Security but for the other nearby office buildings too. It was just one, giant story underground, and for the first moment she couldn’t see anything, while her eyes adjusted to the dark.

The lights were scarce, and shadows crept around everywhere.

Did they just send a blonde to hide from killers, in a basement?  It was a good thing she wasn’t in high heels. She didn’t know if she should laugh or cry, or curse – but she entered the deeper shadows of the tall vehicles, listening to the silence surrounding her.

The armored vehicles blocked her sight, robust and bigger than normal vans and she couldn’t see where to go.

“His men are already out, around the building.” Nate’s calm voice sounded in her ear. “They all have hoods over their usual clothes, it’d look like a gang robbery gone bad. They're armed, and they’ll shoot without hesitation – we need a distraction to get you out of here, to pass between them. The garage gives only the chance of delaying them, every other direction is too open and without cover.”

“What distraction? What can I do to-”

“Just keep walking. Try to hide and stay alive for the next ten minutes, while we work on getting you out of there.”

So she took a deep breath, and did just that.

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***

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Eliot and Nate took the central position from which they could keep an eye on the goons around the building, and reach the parking lot in time if needed. Parker had opened a parked car on the street for them, and they were both protected by the hood, while leaning over the engine.

Eliot let Nate do all the things that a pissed owner of a broke down car would do in this situation – pulling wires, opening the doors, grabbing things, hitting the bumpers in helpless rage. He put his elbows on the car, keeping his head in the shade of the hood. Watching everything around them. Preserving his strength.

He watched Knudsen’s men in their positions all around the building. Too much open space all around, broad streets, no cover, nowhere to hide. They had perfect lines to shoot and they were already too far apart from each other. To get rid of them all, they needed more than three points of distraction at the same time. No way they could do it now. Open attack was a suicide.

He monitored Sophie’s retreat, slow and unhappy, to the place they left Lucille.

Florence disappeared in the dark entrance of the underground garage.

Nate’s plan was the only thing that could get her out of there alive.

And it was going well, for now. He could see Hardison and Parker at the other end of parking lot, engaged in a quick conversation. Parker was waving her car keys, and Hardison seemed to be explaining something, working on his tablet and pushing it in her face. They looked like a couple having a fight on their way to their car, and yet he knew Hardison was step by step hacking into their security feed.

The plan was going well, although it was clear that his role was absolutely minimized. Nate put an emphasis on speed and a secure retreat this time, keeping him in reserve.

They had arrived only three minutes ago and had time for precisely nothing – but he wasn’t worried about _their_ part of it. “Something is wrong here, Nate,” he said when the goons remained in position. At least one of them could see Florence turning to the parking lot, and even if no one saw her going into the garage, that one would alert all the others and tell them where she was. But they stayed in the open, holding their positions.

“I know. And I know what,” Nate almost disappeared under the hood, making loud clangs with a key. “And Hardison will tell us exactly that, in about-”

“Tell you what?” Hardison said. “I just managed to access their cameras, and I’m turning them off as we speak. No time for an unsuspicious fake malfunction like I did to the first one – it’s important they can’t see shit, and what they’re going to think about it isn’t import- ah, damn.”

“ _Ah, damn_?” he asked, trying unsuccessfully to keep annoyance out of his voice.

“There were four cameras in the garage, and I killed them – but Knudsen sent men there already.  The elevator camera. They went down from inside the building, that’s why you didn’t see anyone moving around.”

“How many?”

“Five on this ride, but elevator immediately went up – maybe for the next round.”

Nate stopped hitting the engine. He knew Nate was thinking about the time and the chances, sorting them out in his head. He needed more time for the choreography, for all their moves. The possibility of mistakes just shot through the roof. Because of the men getting too close to Florence, he would have to speed everything up, or even abort this plan and come up with something else. And every minute they spent here, the danger was growing bigger.

Eliot checked all the goons once more – they hadn't moved. “How much time do you need?” he asked Nate.

A few seconds of silence. Nate knew what he was asking.

“I said,” he repeated. “How much time do you need?”

“I’ll know only when I start,” Parker said quietly, strangely hesitant. “But maybe fifteen minutes. No, _at least_ fifteen minutes.”

He looked at her over the street and parking lot – they were close to the entrance of the garage by now – and saw them both just standing there, watching them.

There was no chance that Florence, no matter how well hidden, could escape those men searching through garage for fifteen minutes.

Nate nodded.

“Make it ten,” he said. And started.

 


	29. Chapter 29

 

Chapter 29

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***

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It was good that the lights were weak and dim, Florence thought while entering another patch of darkness, trying to keep her eye – and ear – on the silhouettes and steps spread all over the garage in search of her. Yet, she would much more prefer more light; somehow, it seemed that bad things didn’t happen in well lit places.

“Florence,” she heard Eliot’s voice through the earbud, but it sounded strangely low. “Don’t scream.”

“Okay,” she whispered back, cautiously passing a car, keeping herself low. “I don’t see why would I scream, anyway. That would only tell them where I am, and they would gather around me. You know, I’m _not_ stupid.” It was good she had to whisper, that hid a treacherous tremble in her voice.

She only made two more steps before an arm wrapped around her waist and yanked her to the side, behind a van; the hand over her mouth stopped her scream that had started despite his warning.

“Don’t. Scream,” Eliot whispered in her ear, and she heard him in stereo, through the earbud too. She just nodded, trying to calm her hammering heart. He _really_ could’ve been more specific.

Two shadows moved a few meters in front of them, shadows with guns ready in their hands, but they were hidden from their sight.

She kept her breath until they disappeared.

He released her when they didn’t hear their steps anymore. “Parker, two are heading in your direction,” he said, keeping his voice even lower, giving her a sign to stay where she was.

“Saw them.” Parker was whispering too. They obviously all were near people who could hear them. “Nate, first one is done, leave that car and go.”

“How did you-?” Florence started and stopped.

“Not now.” Eliot went to the back end of the van to check their route. She was surprised to see him walking at all, in Lucille he looked totally spent – but now under all the slow, careful moves she could see tension that was speeding him up. And there was a strange watchfulness in his eyes when he turned to her again. “Stay behind me all the time. If we’re lucky, we’ll get through the garage unnoticed.”

“I killed all their other cameras,” Hardison’s voice jumped in. “But, you won’t get lucky this time, most of them are heading to you already. Prepare for hide and seek while we do the rest of this. They are all armed, people. Please, don’t get shot or stabbed or cut or killed or scratched or something, I _beg_ you – I don’t want to be the one to tell Betsy that we all went out just half an hour after she left. You can faint, though – as long as there are no marks on your body, no new marks, or cuts or wounds or bruises or even a slight difference in skin tone that would show her you were exposed to the sun-”

“Hardison, shut up, I have to listen,” Eliot whispered and the hacker went silent, with one troubled sigh that echoed for seconds.

“What’s the plan?” she whispered, trying to keep the tremble out of her voice. His quick glance told her she wasn’t very good at hiding it. He looked at her, judging her – her fear, not yet panic – and she barely kept herself from shifting.

“To keep you alive on this playground while we wait for them to get us out,” he said a little softer. “The building is still surrounded and being watched, the goons are covering the entire perimeter. That’s another ring we must pass.”

 So, not only goons in the garage, but also another group waiting for them outside, in the open? How the hell did they think… she took a deep breath and said as calmly as she could, “What _exactly_ are we waiting for?”

“Armored cars take a little more time, even for Parker,” he said as if that explained it; it seemed that all of them shared that annoying habit. He closed his eyes, raising his hand to keep her quiet, and she snapped her mouth shut, cutting off the next question.

Even she heard the soft sound of shoes on cement, somewhere down on their left, in the deepest shadows. Only two rows of cars separated them from the man approaching, and she knew that that distance was nothing for a gun. Knudsen’s men didn’t have to come near Eliot, and risk being beaten, they could shoot them on sight. They only had to spot them and open fire – running was pointless.

Then another sound came, from the opposite side, behind them. They had nowhere to go. Fear clenched stronger. She tried not to show it.

“Are you angry enough?” Eliot asked if they had all the time in the world for chatting, as if enemies weren’t closing in from both sides.

“Why?” She eyed him, uncertain, knowing that tone. Instead of an answer – which was the answer itself – he grinned and turned her towards the second incoming man. “Go get him. Hurry!”

Well, shit.

It wasn’t as if she didn’t know that she was only a decoy – she made a few similar scenes herself, and _much_ better than this one – yet all her heroines that needed saving always obeyed without thinking, trusting the other party completely. _That_ was the thing that troubled her. She couldn’t trust a man who was unsteady on his feet, and unarmed. She slowed her steps to a lazy walk, giving him time to prepare for attack. He would need at least fifteen seconds, judging by his movement, and she _really_ didn’t want to spend them waiting in front of a gun. She _really_ didn’t want to depend on the attack of a man who went down because he was fucking _driving_.

Now she could see the shadow of her target, he was on the other side of one van. She took a deep breath and slowed even more, not wanting to jump in front of someone who would fire instantly, being a decoy or not. She wished her heartbeat could follow, and slow down too – she could feel it in her throat.

In fact, she didn’t see why she should expose her entire body to it. Instead of walking in front of the killer, she reached her hand around the back side of the van, and waved.

There. She drew his attention to herself. Mission accomplished.

Knudsen’s man, surprisingly, quietly cleared his throat.

She carefully peeked with one eye, knowing it was almost impossible to shoot that small a target.

Knudsen’s man was lying on the floor. Eliot was standing over him. Waiting for her.

He shook his head. “That was, I don’t know… a fucking _hurricane_. You give Flash a bad name.”

“I was cautious,” she thought it over. “Extremely.”

A whisper trailed in. “In fact, when you mentioned Flash, I remembered-”

“Not now, Hardison. Parker?”

“Working on the second.”

She moved back a step, to look around the van from where she came. She could feel they weren’t alone here, and that made her heart beat in a frantic rhythm. Every instinct was yelling for her to start running as fast as she could, making her hands shake, drying out her mouth.

And the man behind her put his hands into his pockets, more relaxed now in the middle of this mess, than she had seen him from the beginning. There _was_ something strange about that combination of utter concentration and an easy smile. He still looked unsteady on his feet, yet his whole posture radiated compressed energy even when he swayed. And maybe he was just happy that he finally had pockets to put his hands into, she added morosely.

He came closer to her, watching over her head and above the cars, and once again his hand formed a warning. Without any other word, he grabbed her hand and pulled her after him, keeping the van as cover on their side. She had to quicken her steps to catch up, but he seemed to walk without a problem; he looked unsteady only when standing and not moving.

They avoided two more men, in a zigzag around them, with short breaks for waiting, listening and hiding. Eliot kept some sort of direction, going left whenever he could and the situation allowed, and she noticed they were in the same section of garage the entire time.

Breaking the silence didn’t seem like such a good idea. The others were strangely silent too. There was no banter or talking, which they did without a problem when they were breaking into the C4 building. Maybe they weren’t aware of it, but she knew the reason - he wasn’t with them then, in the field. He was safe in the apartment, not among armed goons. If they didn’t want to break his concentration, she surely wouldn’t be the one to do it. Yet, this felt great; she finally read them, read something they didn’t know they were revealing.

Just when she thought they might continue with this endlessly, when they passed the better part of one row, a loud yell from behind raised the alarm. She quickly turned around and saw one of them, raising his hand above his head, giving away their position to the others, telling them the exact part the garage.

“We could use that distraction now,” she squeaked, keeping herself low. Eliot just continued for a few more meters, putting yet another van between them and the man who noticed them.

“Not gonna happen,” his reply sounded just a little breathless. “ _We_ are the distraction for them.”

For what? Just great. She bit her lip, glancing around.

“Crawl under the van. Stay there,” he said shortly, pushing her down in the darker shadows, as the first bullet came whistling through the air. It hit the van and ricocheted away from the impenetrable surface – she couldn’t tell if that was good or bad for them.

She dived into the oil and dust on the cement. “Two more are running our way,” she said when she saw distant feet in quick motion, but one pair ran in front of her eyes, and she heard hits and grunts. The van shook when a body was slammed into it, and she couldn’t tell who was slamming whom; she searched all around her, trying to see more legs that could be a threat.

Finally, an unknown body fell only one meter away from her – she just started to pull herself out from under the van, when another pair of feet came quickly, and the sounds repeated.

This time, she noticed with worry, the fight lasted longer.

“The third one is done,” Parker’s voice reported, tense and quiet. “Just a few more minutes.”

She had no idea what they were doing, but it looked like it wasn’t finished yet, and the sounds of the fight continued – she couldn’t simply wait to see the outcome. She wasn’t fucking helpless. She rolled closer to the fight – getting oil all over her clothes along the way - and pulled herself out from under the van. One booted foot missed her head by inches and hit the metal. The owner was caught off balance, and she saw Eliot elbow him twice; the man finally started to fall, more clanging onto his opponent than trying to hit him. Eliot pushed him away; Florence saw he had his gun in his hands.

He looked like he needed to sit down, swaying and completely breathless, but unharmed.

Yet, there was no time for a time-out.

They both heard more steps running in their direction, but Eliot stood motionless for a second, staring at the gun. She couldn’t believe her eyes when he pulled the magazine out, and threw the gun away.

“Why did you-”  Her question died on her lips and became a scream when a shadow darted past her and slammed into Eliot with a vicious force that knocked him off his feet. She only caught a glimpse of the blond hair before they both disappeared behind the van in the dark. The Red Guard from the lobby.

“Florence, talk to me,” Nate said, alarmed by her scream.

“Busy,” she stuttered, hurtling forward, then stopping and turning back. She couldn’t do anything bare-handed. She picked up the gun and magazine and hurried after them – she only lost four seconds – hoping she would get there in time for… for what? No idea. But she could shoot a warning shot. She could at least-

The blond guy was in a heap, on the ground. Eliot was in the middle of a fall – or getting up – with his back against the van, staring with unfocused eyes into the guy, as if not sure how he ended up on the floor. She saw that empty stare the first time they met, seconds before he crashed down. If he collapsed now… She ran to him. His knees buckled – yes, it was definitely a fall – yet he managed to stop the fall, reaching blindly with his left hand to the van.

“The gun,” he whispered, and she quickly gave him the weapon, grateful he changed his mind.

“Don’t move,” he breathed, focusing. She opened her mouth to tell him he wasn’t doing such a great job when he moved, when the gun came so close to her head that she almost felt the touch. She had no breath to scream again so she just turned around, just in time to see one man falling, hit directly in the face with the gun. Well, obviously there were many ways to shoot somebody with a gun, she thought bitterly. Throwing it was one of them.

When she turned to Eliot again, he was on his feet, but his left arm was still holding the van in a death grip, not letting it go.

He threw the gun with his right hand, she realized. His face was _white_.

“I can go to another row of vans, for a minute of two.” She struggled for better control of her voice, but she only managed to whisper. “Draw a few of them after me, then make a circle and come back while you…I don’t know… something,” she finished, miserably failing at an encouraging smile.

He listened for a moment, looking over her head, then looked at her again. _Still not moving from the van_. She should ask him if he was able to walk at all, and she thought about how to form that question, while at the same time, giving Nate a report. Whatever they were doing, it wasn’t more important than _this_.

“For the next half a minute we’re not in imminent danger,” he said slowly. Carefully. “Only these few saw where we were. The rest of them are still sneaking around. Not near our row.”

“What can I do?” she cleared her throat, and her voice grew stronger. “How much time do you need? And what do you want me to do as a distraction? I can guide them after me – if they come running to you, and you are waiting, prepared, you can pile them, one after another.” He raised his eyebrows. Great, now he would think she was thinking he was some killing machine. “Or not, if you had enough and don't feel like fighting anymore – when in need, I can fight, too. There’s nothing wrong with fighting and defending, or even attacking-”

“Florence…”

“What?”

“Stop scaring me.”

She gasped. A barely audible soft chuckle sounded like Hardison, but she muted it, staring at Eliot. Glaring at him sounded like a great idea, and she tried, tried really hard, but that gasp broke the pressure mounting in her chest, and she couldn’t stop the grin.

“That’s better,” he nodded, watchfulness subsiding from his eyes with a quick smile. “Rested enough? Can you continue or do you need more time?” The smile was still there, but the concentration was too, and she knew how attentive his listening was.

“Ready when you are – we can collect more guns,” she turned around to see which way they should take, but mostly to give him more time to regain balance – but she didn’t have to bother with that. She barely made one step when he pulled her back and stopped her, just one step behind her.

“Unless I tell you, never go before me,” he grabbed her hand and drew her after him again, going around the van. They weren’t going as fast as before, and he carefully chose every bit of cover he could find. This time he was dragging her with his right hand, she noticed, to have the left ready for attack, and she adjusted her steps to avoid any need to pull her harder.

That helped when he stumbled, she was near.

He shook his head and they both stopped, waiting for the dizziness to pass. “Hardison? How long?” When he spoke, she hoped the others would notice the weariness of his voice, and hurry this up.

“She just finished the fourth one, we are in position.” The hacker’s voice was tense but not alarmed, so she relaxed a bit. “Fifth one in the third row from the elevator.”

Eliot changed direction, going left, and Florence adjusted her steps again, not daring to ask anything. They passed four vans. The fifth one had the engine running.

“You drive.” Another whisper; he wasn’t able to breathe and talk at the same time.

She climbed up into the van and waited for him, quickly going over the controls; almost the same as in Lucille, she would manage. When Eliot closed the door after him, she noticed the key wasn’t in ignition. Just a set of wires.

“We’re set, Nate.”

“Wait for Parker – four seconds.”

Florence thought she would join them in the van, but when the four seconds passed a van flashed in front of them, going from the left to the right. She heard yelling, two gunshots, running and the slamming of car doors all around them.

“Okay, people, let’s get the hell out of here. Florence, step on it. Now.”

She started, following Parker who vanished in seconds; two more similar vans moved at the same time, from different parts of the place. In less than ten seconds four identical armored Dvorak Security vehicles left their garage.

Bright daylight hit her eyes as her van emerged on the ground level.

She looked behind her – the chase was after them, but Knudsen’s men, both in vans and smaller cars, didn’t know who to follow.  The four vans went in different directions.

And they couldn’t shoot, she realized just then. Neither the men in pursuit, nor the men that were covering the building. They were protected by armor.

“They can corner you and make you stop,” Nate said as if continuing her thoughts. “Keeping driving for a few more minutes, until we see who has the biggest tail.” He was driving too, she heard the exact same engine sound as hers.

“Wooohooo!” A loud yell came from the earbud at the same second a Dvorak Security van, faster than lighting, flashed before her eyes going from right to left, and disappeared in a side street. Florence stepped on the brakes to avoid the two vans and three cars that followed it.

“Parker, try not to kill anybody!” Eliot growled from her right. “Florence, follow them. Chase Parker, that way we’ll all stay close.”

Florence followed, and for a few minutes the row of armored vans and cars moved like a snake after Parker who made impossible turns. The other cars on the streets avoided them, horns were echoing all around them, and the chaos was growing with every second that passed.

_BREAKING NEWS: ‘Mentally disturbed TV writer snapped after the cancellation of her show, and wreaked havoc on the peaceful streets of Boston, stealing armored vehicle from a well known and respectable security agency. Police surrounded her, released the collapsed hostage, and took her down with nets and rubber bullets. She is now held in the Psychiatric Institute for mentally disturbed criminals, under heavy drugs.’_

She chuckled, keeping the hysteria under control, barely. She could feel Eliot watching her, but she couldn’t come up with anything normal, nothing that would sound sane.

“Hardison, you’re the first to leave the van,” Nate said. “Stop at the next junction when you see Lucille, Sophie’s waiting.”

“’Bout time.” The hacker sounded shaken. “Nobody asked me if I was able to drive this thing, y’know? Driving can hardly be called sensory deprivation.”

Florence continued to follow the chase, but Parker left them all far behind her, disappearing from everyone’s sight.

“I left the van in the middle of the intersection, blocking everything,” Hardison reported after a few minutes. “Two of Knudsen’s cars are stuck in the line behind it, they can’t get out.”

“Good. Florence, you’re next, get ready,” Nate continued. “Slow down a little and put some distance between those in front of you.”

She did as told, increasing the distance, until she saw Lucille maneuvering through the left lane and catching up with her. They both stopped when the red light hit, and Nate opened the side door for them.

Eliot had to go around the van to reach Lucille, and she waited for him, keeping an eye on his steps. The light was still red when Nate closed the door behind them, and they all could see Parker’s van, this time speeding through the intersection from left to right.

“Parker, enough. Leave it – block the biggest intersection you can find, and wait for us. We’ll follow you.”

“But I can-”

“I know. Next time, though.”

They managed to escape from the street full of pissed off drivers at the last moment, before another wave of cars came and got stuck, adding to the utter chaos.

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***

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Eliot seriously contemplated bringing a pillow into his corner behind the driver’s seat, and making it standard equipment. He thought better of it when Florence almost took his place for herself, changing her mind at the last moment; a pillow would be an invitation for everybody.

She sat in a chair facing the table.

Nate was silent, Sophie and Hardison were engaged in quiet conversation while she drove – Hardison demonstratively keeping his head covered with Sophie’s scarf, letting her coo over him and his headache - and Parker was busy with the muffins. Florence left his Challenger just a few minutes away from the place they gathered in Lucille – and he was sure Nate coordinated their driving the security vehicles in that direction, to save time - so Nate let Parker get out and drive it home. Strictly behind Lucille, no speeding.

He could finally close his eyes and think.

The concentration he needed to perform that little dance in the garage – something he had usually been able to do with his eyes closed and having fun – wasn’t something he could switch on and off as he wanted. It still held him, tensing his every muscle. He couldn’t relax, and he sat stiff as a board, breathing in slow, but too shallow breaths.

Nah, even the pillow wouldn’t help – he had to wait for it to pass. It would let go when they arrived in the apartment, and there he could expect some rest.  A complete shutdown was more like it. It was inevitable after all the crazy things he did today.

Florence changed chairs.

He glanced at her while she studied Hardison’s things on the table. He forced himself to close his eyes and keep his mind from over analyzing everything around him. He had yet to analyze his moves and reactions in the garage. Especially the reactions; the moves were mostly automatic. He counted four different mistakes while he was doing them, and seven more after he made them, and that wasn’t-

Florence took another chair, moving to the back of the van.

He stopped an irate sigh and paid attention, immediately catching what was wrong.

Nate was silent.

And he was sure, though he couldn’t see it, that his eyes were following Florence all over the van in the rear view mirror.

He tried to think, _again_ , but this time he changed tactics, left the garage, and started evaluating all the ways he could use to make Nate and Sophie search for the best organic food coloring and buy it the next time they went out.

She _did_ do a stupid thing, though. Nate had to talk to her, and make sure she never –

Florence left the last chair, ducked under the sight line from the front end, and sat on the floor beside him.

_Goodbye, concentration and analysis._

She must’ve been totally distressed when she sat beside the one who scared her five times a day, just to avoid Nate. Though, he had to admit, when Nate looked pissed off, he was scary as hell.

Her maneuver was futile. Nate left the front, leaving Sophie and Hardison, and came to them. For a moment he just watched them from above – and Eliot was sure they were lucky that Hardison couldn’t see the amount of dust and oil they both got all over Lucille – but then, instead of sitting in a chair, Nate sat in front of them. On the floor.  Eliot was pretty certain that he waited until Florence decided to seek shelter here, that was a sign her stress was at the level he wanted it to be.

He didn’t look pissed off. Just sharp and alert… but it wasn’t any less scary. His gaze was steady on her, almost fixed.

 “What did he say?” Nate asked calmly.

She swallowed. “That my offer isn’t bad, and he agreed to stop this. I told him I won’t go to the police, that I’ll give him the USB, and… look, I know it sounds stupid, but I had to try it!”

“Yes, you did,” he agreed lightly. “But not like this. Not without us.”

Eliot glanced sideways at her when she didn’t reply. And just as he knew his opponents' next moves before they were even aware of them, he knew she barely resisted pulling up her knees and hugging her shins.

 “Do you remember what Eliot had told you about Knudsen?” Nate went on. “‘They wouldn’t climb so high in their ranks if they weren’t eliminating any _possibility_ of a screw up along the way.’ When you’re a threat to the mob, there’s no bargaining for your life – you’re a liability and you have to be eliminated. They're protecting themselves. Knudsen, even if he really wanted to spare you, couldn’t do it, couldn’t risk it.”

“My offer was logical and good for both sides,” she said quietly. “I counted on that, that he would think like a businessman and see the benefit for him. He would have the USB, and he could stop trying to kill me – every attempt could lead police closer to him. I thought he was aware of that, and when I said I had no intentions of involving police-”

Nate raised his hand to stop her. “Florence, there is only one solution for a businessman like Knudsen. Dealing with the problem efficiently. He simply can’t risk you changing your mind about police in four months.”

“Well, now I know that,” she sighed. “I’m not sorry I tried; now that that possibility has been dismissed, I know where I stand. It’s just…” she paused, choosing her words. “I’m sorry you had to come for me… you had to fight, and steal, and…” her words ended in silence.

Nate rubbed his chin, thoughtfully, but said nothing.

Eliot raised his knee and rested his left arm on it. Nate just glanced at him for one second. _No, this isn’t over_. Okay, he agreed she had to hear all of it, but Nate could do it in the apartment where they could have a little privacy. She didn’t have to be lectured in front of _him_ , of all people.

 “There’s no way out of this for us,” Nate finally replied to the problem that bothered her the most, obviously, and which she left unspoken. She twitched.

Nate tilted his head, reading her every breath. “There’s nothing you can do to stop it, so just accept that as the current situation. We shall solve it.” His voice became flat and strangely bleak and Eliot frowned. “But, you can do one thing, Florence… you can get us all killed. You’re our client, and we need to trust you. Our usual clients were never this close. Our clients never set foot in my apartment, not even when they were working with us and helping us. That would be too dangerous. You are here, now, with us, in something that became _our_ job – and that means our rules. Do you understand that?”

“Completely,” she whispered only that, but she didn’t avert her eyes from Nate. Eliot darted him a clear look – stop it _now_ , that’s enough – but Nate, though he was aware of it, just smiled a smile that matched Betsy’s creepiest calm smiles.

“You’re not a part of the team, and you’ll never be. I trust them when they go to do something that they think ought to be done, because I know them, it’s their job. But when a client does the same, it’s a disaster. You don’t know what you’re doing, and we can all die because of that. From now on, Florence, you do only what we tell you to do – nothing more and nothing less. This situation is already too deadly, and one loose cannon, with its own ideas, could end us. I won’t allow that.”

Okay, this was way too much. He could _hear_ the blood draining from her face. She did something stupid, but she didn’t go to Knudsen when she thought she was the only target - she did that because of them, when she realized they were going to war against all of them. And Nate knew that well, too, so what was the point of this bitching-

“I think she just used all her jokers,” he said before he could think if it was wise to jump in. “Even if she wants, there’s nothing left for her to do, so we can end this chapter.” He smiled while saying that, a neutral smile that should lift her up, and bring Nate down, at the same time.

They both looked at him – Nate with raised eyebrows, Florence with genuine surprise.

“What? You don’t have any new ideas, right?” he asked her. She just shook her head.

“And if you do, you will come to us first?” Nate asked. She nodded.

“Okay, that settles pretty much everything.” Nate’s voice finally returned to a normal tone. “As long as you remember that this is not an episode of your show, and that the actors don’t play the words you wrote for them, we’re good.” He got up, but stayed for a second more, watching her. “It takes guts to go to talk to your killer,” he smiled. Then he turned around and went to sit with Hardison and Sophie.

“But it’s stupid nevertheless,” Eliot added gruffly, not wanting her to feel encouraged.

She hunched down when Nate disappeared, but she glanced at him. “Are you playing good cop, bad cop on me?”

“A cop?” he said. “No need for insults.”

“Because if you are, you’re switching sides too fast – there are rules about that.”

He said nothing, and she did what he thought she would do earlier, she brought her legs up and rested her head on her knees. She didn’t want to reveal how miserable she was in front of Nate – but she clearly felt it was okay to show that to him. And what the hell was that?  Progress, or deterioration? He hid his smile when he thought about the ultimate test of that; if he asked her about his beanie, and the state of her hair, he would surely know.

Just for a second, a suspicion hit him – no, paranoia at its best – Nate’s timing of this lecture was... He sighed, rubbing his eyes tiredly. Over analyzing was a boring and persistent bitch, he needed to stop doing that. Just as he was watching her now, seeing much more than he wanted to see, than was smart for him to see – her fear, her guilt, her… courage.

 “I did the same,” he said suddenly, surprising himself more than her. “I went to talk with… with a man in charge, when they tried to kill us. Chileans. And I know what it takes to do that.”

“What did you tell him?” she whispered.

_Oh shit_. It was good his concentration was still here, in traces – he quickly pulled on every reserve he had. “N... nothing important.” He leveled his breathing and smiled. _No sounds, no gunshots around them, just the engine_. Her eyes were attentive but she wasn’t pressing. No, she _knew_ she mustn’t press him. Fuck, she clearly found out more than she was showing. “We talked about the situation from different aspects,” he continued with effort. “Until there was nothing left to say, and they came to get me out.” He put his hands into his pockets before she could look at them.

She said nothing, waiting, but he turned his head in front of him. He said more than was clever. Clever for him. For this day. For his decisions.

The silence was significantly longer this time, yet it wasn’t uncomfortable.

She lowered her head again and muttered something unintelligible.

“What?” he asked, taking care that his voice sounded normal.

“I said,” she lifted her head. “That I feel like a busted truant. Collected, put into the van, now driven home.”

For the first moment he was just grateful because she changed the subject, though it showed that she knew it was a good thing to do, so maybe even why. Then he realized something more. That was a part of her relaxing with him – he had been the first one collected, she only followed.

“You should change your name from Leverage to Hotel California,” she continued, trying to smile, but there was, again, that damn unhappy twist.

“Why?”

“You can check out any time you like,” her voice became a whisper, “but you can never leave.”

 

*


	30. Chapter 30

**Sorry for delay :/**

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Chapter 30

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***

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“Uh–oh.”

Without opening his eyes, Eliot figured out that it wasn’t the word that woke him up, not even the tone of Parker’s voice, full of suppressed panic. It was a tickling on his face, the light touch of something that momentarily reminded him of the smell when he woke up in the Challenger – warm soil. Without vanilla.

Soil.

“I just came to wake you up,” Parker quickly continued. “You said three hours, right?”

He opened his eyes to face Parker who was recklessly hovering over him, keeping herself between him and shelf that shielded his bed from view of the dining table.

When they returned, he had put George on the top of it.

“Move.” He said only that, and Parker chewed on her lip, thinking.

“Okay,” she shrugged. “I was going to bed, anyway.”

She moved away, letting him see Orion perched on the shelf by George. Someone naïve would think they were buddies, both of them looking at him from above. But he had soil in his hair and on his face.

This was a clear declaration of war. A glove in his face.

Orion made an almost chirping sound.

He was too tired for this shit. He rubbed his forehead, trying to get it together; Parker had interrupted into something very strange. No screams, dead people and gunshots this time – he was in the middle of staring in consternation at Matio Tapia, who was sitting in his passenger seat, humming and voting on his phone. For Supernatural, that treacherous bastard. He knew that driving the Challenger would trigger something unpleasant, but this was _weird_.

It was a good feeling to wake up without his heart hammering, though. It was even better that he finally managed to intervene in the nightmares, reminding himself of the work that should be done.

Three hours of sleep and rest should be enough. When they arrived at the apartment, Sophie even managed to make him eat before resting – and it was one incredibly cruel use of blackmail. He suspected she let out a little Annie Croy – only that woman could come up with the idea of telling Parker how to count the calories necessary for a convalescing man, if he didn’t eat. Only she could know that Betsy's threats weren’t working on him, only on Parker and Hardison. And when he imagined Parker, concentrated on counting his every bite, all day long… he gave up all fight and went to eat, without any word of protest.

Sophie was kind enough not to reveal her methods when Nate raised his eyebrows at his quick surrender.

He got up, slowly. Every damn joint in his body ached. And muscles. And hair. And thoughts, and blinking, and breathing, and…

Raising his arms to take the cat wasn’t as joyful as one would think. He was prepared for a fight, hissing and scratching, and he had no idea what to do if that happened, but Orion let him pick him up without arguing.

“Never, ever again!” Eliot tapped the cat's nose, pointing at the soil.

Orion looked at George.

George returned the cold stare.

Orion flinched.

“See? Don’t mess with him. He might look gentle, all green and innocent, but you’ll find yourself half eaten one morning, and you’ll have no idea how. Don’t tell me later I didn’t warn you. George is _evil_.”

“Oh,” Florence said from the dining table, where she and Nate sat, going through papers. “So  the plant is George! I thought…”

“And what else could be George?” he asked, trying to ignore Nate’s pained expression. Nate, in the last couple of days, started to have very strange facial expressions whenever George was in question. _Bastard was obviously Team Orion_.

“That strange painting on the wall?” Florence said carefully. He restrained himself from looking at Harlan Leverage III. One of the rare good things about him being in this apartment, was his bed positioned right under that monstrosity, so he couldn’t see it above his head.

“Long story,” he said shortly, and brought the cat to them. “Sleazy little bastard,” he handed him to Florence. “Talk to him. _Again_. This time be convincing and authoritative.”

“You haven’t had a cat, ever, right?” she sighed, cuddling the cat. Orion made himself comfortable in her arms, watching Eliot from the impenetrable fortress that protected him. “You’re not a cat person. Only a complete ignorant would think that you can go make an ‘convincing and authoritative’ speech to a cat.”

“Try threats,” he said. He looked over the room – Parker was in her bed, thank God. A soft clicking without any visible cause told him that Hardison, hidden from everybody by the sofa backrest, continued to work on his tablet, but he said nothing. The post-action adrenalin was ebbing slowly, he needed more time to relax and rest. “Where’s Sophie?”

“Went home,” Nate said. “Btw, Betsy called while you were sleeping… Hardison? Can you play it?”

In a second, all six screens were lit with the video of a live report from the streets of Boston. The mess they made, from a few different angles. Dvorak Security vans all over the intersections, blocking traffic, pissed off drivers, and a lynch mob gathering around them.

“Hell hath no fury like driver jammed,” Nate smiled lightly. “Knudsen had a lot explaining to do. Apparently teenagers managed to break into _armored security vehicles_. Poor man had to publicly say that his company sucks – and the comments all over the web are hilarious. He is a joke. Unfortunately, one traffic camera caught a glimpse of a handsome, young black man leaving a van-”

Muttering came from the couch.  “T’s not my fault, I couldn’t see it.”

“-not enough for real facial recognition, but enough for someone who knows him to recognize him and reach for the phone.”

“Shit,” Eliot squinted. “Betsy saw the report?”

Nate darted him one long, long look. “I said all three of you were resting now, so she didn’t have to come here, you were all unharmed. We talked for half an hour.”

Okay, maybe that pained expression wasn’t only because of George.

“She won’t call again, right?” he asked carefully.

“Nope, I said you’ll all sleep until morning. She _strongly_ recommended that. Why are you standing?”

“Facebook,” he said, after he tasted the word first, trying to erase all the disdain he felt. In spite of his efforts, it came out as if he spat it on the floor.

“Don’t touch your crops,” came from the sofa. “It’s a minefield. Touch just one pumpkin, and she’ll know you’re awake. And _I_ am not answering any calls.”

“And why are you not sleeping?” he asked the hacker. Instead of an answer, the screens changed to a facial recognition program, with the face of Goon A from the corridor recording.  The program was still searching for him, and the faces were changing fast.

“Quality is poor, and it will take some time,” the invisible Hardison continued. “But I have nothing better, and we have to know who he is. He is very high in his organization, but, he’s not listed in Dvorak Security's employee lists, no records of him whatsoever.”

He looked at the blurry picture and his ordinary features – yes, he was a trusted killer, a man in charge. A very good one. “Try discharged police officers first,” he said. “That will narrow your search.”

“Why?”

“He had a very distinctive stare.”

“You gotta be kidding me – a stare?”

“The first assessment of the opponent, Hardison. I remember our first encounter here. Cops first search your face, quickly scanning through the Wanted lists in their heads – it’s an instinct. He did that when he turned to me, all by the book. He had at least twenty years on the force. After that they look further, sorting you into dangerous/non dangerous groups. The Mexican cartel will look at your boots first, to see what sort of knife you're carrying – they’re not interested in your face. Russians are-”

“Okay, okay, I got it. Face first. Police officer. I’m on it.”

“Why does it take so long?” Florence asked, watching the changing faces.

“Because shows have to show the results in the same episode.” This time, Hardison’s voice was colored with a smile. “Real time searches take days. The only show that ever, ever, showed the entire length of a facial recognition search was NCIS, when Gibbs tried to find Ari – but it was only because they wanted to show his obsession, and not the real deal.”

Eliot muted Hardison who continued to explain all the parameters of it, watching first Florence and Nate – they sat relaxed, there was no tension between them. Then he looked around again, at the soft light of late afternoon sun that was coloring everything in warm yellow.

“Nate. Lower all the blinds.”

That stopped Hardison’s explanation.

Nate got up. “That won’t stop the bullets.”

“But it will block their sight lines. We have nothing better for now.”

Nate just nodded and went to do it.

Florence sighed. “What are you talking about?”

“Eliot said that Knudsen will, probably, attack tomorrow, again,” Nate said from the window. “Yet, in the meantime, you talked to him, and managed to escape a bunch of his killers, with help. You did an interview in front of his sand excavation camp. We humiliated him in front of all of Boston today, as a bonus. That can speed along his plan, and he might attack sooner – tonight. Or during the night. Of course, he can delay everything even more, letting us wait and fear for days.”

“When we talked, I let him think I have no idea what’s on the recording I have – he thinks I think it’s about Winslow’s shows and the bribe. I don’t know that it’s something suspicious with that Ford pickup that he owns, so I don’t know how to use it.” Florence stopped, blinked once, then continued, “In fact, I really don’t know how to use it. Do you?”

“Maybe,” Nate shot her a sideways glance. She didn’t notice it, but Eliot knew that Nate had to stop himself from mentioning how useful it would be if they had that entire conversation recorded.

 “Sophie’s Inspector Lohman alias is also on very shaky ground-” Nate went on.

“It isn’t,” Hardison’s voice trailed in. “I just finished putting her data in all the relevant DNR documents. I did it as soon as you told us about her first visit to Knudsen, but now I straightened it up with more info, just in case. Olivia Lohman is alive, real, and solid.” The hacker looked at them over the backrest, with one eye. “Some things ain’t gonna do themselves,” he added with a grin. “And some things can’t wait.”

“Like Facebook,” Eliot sighed and turned around, going to bed. He'd turned his laptop on before he went to sleep, and that shit was waiting for him. “You don’t have to watch the results on the big screens?” he asked Hardison. “Put episodes on it, quietly.”

“Do you need comments?” Florence asked.

“If you’re not too busy with articles.”

She brought her laptop with her, sitting by his side as they did before, but he couldn’t start  watching the episodes right away.

He needed only one glance at the posts in the group to see the mess.

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***

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It took almost two hours to go through all the posts, read all the comments, and see what happened. Supernatural and Castle took a solid lead, they were third and falling behind, and everybody was discouraged, pissed off and growling – ergo, drama.

At least nobody was screaming.

They were divided into two groups, one bitching about the others not voting, the other group bitching about the pressure that was being put on them, and guess what, nobody had voted for hours.

Their opponents – their friends on the other side – had taken a solid lead, and it seemed that catching up with them was almost impossible.

The polls they were voting in were on some website called SpoiledTV, and he liked that better than the PVA voting. Here, the votes were visible, he could see the numbers changing. PVA voting was anonymous, and no results were displayed, they were voting blindly.

He stared at the screen. Blindly.

What the hell was the point of all this? Even a victory wouldn’t save her show. It might help, but there was also a possibility that no one would pay any attention to the internet polls, no matter how good and famous they were. The suspicion that Nate had pushed him into this only to get him together grew stronger again. He couldn’t see what, exactly, he could do here, with these fans.

For now, they weren’t hindering anything Nate did, because Nate didn't do nothing yet. At least that was useful. But they didn’t need him on that, occupied with voting, wasting his time.

“What’s wrong?” Florence quietly asked. He peeked at her laptop – the blue background was buzzing with small messages, all full of #SaveM7. It seemed that she managed to keep the panic roaring. The articles she'd written must’ve helped with that, too.

And he was stuck with a bunch of sulking women. He had no idea what to do with them.

“We’re losing ground, and the tension is rising. Nothing to worry about. For now.”

“I’ll tweet for help,” she sighed. He watched her changing accounts, sending messages, replying, spreading them all over the net, but he pulled himself out of it – he had his own shit to solve.

After reading the most important comments again, he jumped into a conversation. Choosing sides would be stupid, he needed them all together, not half of them against him – _in what, dammit_ – so he made a neutral comment full of compliments to both sides. They all needed understanding and acknowledgment of their efforts, and he gave it galore.

Being charming in written form was much harder than in person. It sucked, to be precise, and he had to chose every word very carefully, avoiding any possible misconceptions.

By now, he was able to add characters to the names, and he sorted them into groups: loud ones, fighters, troublemakers, artistic (pictures), artistic (writing), funny ones, silent, serious. For now, it seemed that the majority of every group liked him – their comments were positive and friendly. He was accepted, and this voting, no matter how short it really was, was bonding people quickly. It seemed that nobody found his late coming or recent account activation suspicious, and they behaved as if he'd been with them much longer.

He continued to write comments, calming the situation down; they'd all had enough of the quarrel already, because they all accepted that tone and continued with him. After an hour, he was remembered as a nice, clever guy ‘who understands women’.

Fighting in garages left bruises, but he would rather fight for an hour without pause, than _type_. Not only did he have to grift en masse, he had to do it via the net… he reminded himself that Florence could hear him gritting his teeth, judging by her glances. But it was too late.

“You know, if you hate this so much, you don’t have to do it,” she stated carefully.

And what to say to that? Explain to her that ‘to have to’ was impossible to explain? He didn’t have to do anything. And he did. Damn.

Snapping at her would do no good; she was already distressed more than she deserved to be. He had just entertained a bunch of women, he could continue to do that with the one that needed it more than them.

“I’m just… learning new things,” he forced himself to smile. It wasn’t as hard as he thought it would be. “For example, I just learned, the hard way, that _lol_ doesn’t mean the laughing out loud that everybody thinks.”

“But it does.”

“Nope. They ain’t using it that way. They are using it instead of _heh._ When somebody comments with 'Lol, you’re right', it doesn’t mean they are dying of laughter. They said: Heh, you’re right. It’s also used as a sign that said words shouldn’t be taken seriously, or as an insult. _You’re an idiot, lol_.” He typed another comment, stopping the sigh on time. “It took me some time, full of wondering what the hell was so hilarious about my comments… good thing I didn’t ask, or go editing them all.”

He cast a sideways glance – yep, the smile was emerging.

“Though, I’m still confused – few of them kept yelling at me, and two slapped me,” he continued lightly.

Her eyebrows went up. “What have you done?”

“Nothing. I said that if all of us stopped commenting, and went voting, we could make a steady income of votes, and I calculated exactly how much, in the next ten hours. I got: SLAP as a reply. Yelling _and_ slapping, at the same time. I’m still trying to figure that one out.” He wasn’t – he'd googled the damn abbreviation, as he had done with all the confusing words. But she bowed her head to hide a giggle that escaped.

“It wasn’t a slap.” Her face was now lit with the smile. “It’s a SLAP - Sounds Like A Plan. It seems you’re gaining their trust. They’re listening to what you say.”

“Small steps.”

“And you’re good at making people do what you want them to do,” she went on, her eyes very cautious now.

He knew what info she was fishing for. She couldn’t understand this situation without understanding them first – and to understand them, she needed to know about That Night, which was still very present in everything they did. Just for a moment, he tried to see how he would feel if he was kept in the dark, clueless, only being given basic info about doings very important to his life, and he knew her frustration and fear. It was very strange that she trusted them at all, but Sophie was a major factor in that.

“You said you would tell me who drugged you,” she said, taking his silence as a cue to continue.

But he couldn’t tell her. Not now. He had to literally freeze his motions to not to look towards the kitchen, to keep watching her with the same neutral, calm expression.

“Tomorrow,” he said shortly. He should’ve told her he wouldn’t talk about it, ever, and he still didn’t know why he didn’t do that – perhaps he knew it would be inevitable at some point. It was better to tell her something, than to let her search by herself. She could dig too deep, and find out much more than she needed to know.

His walls still surrounded him, and though he started bringing them down, he still had much work to do. Someone climbing them, trying to peek over them, wasn’t helping.  Smashing the wall down, might mean smashing down the climber, too.

This ‘client-in-the-apartment thing’ sucked, with or without a murderous cat.

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***

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Watching the episodes helped to silence the awful clicky-clicky-clicky of his voting, a sound that had been driving him nuts for hours.

Five episodes later, with a head full of Florence’s comments, jokes and background stories, he still managed to think about the usefulness of this Facebook crap. Without any result.

Parker was still out; wounded leg and hangover or not, there was something strange about her sleeping rhythm, but he couldn’t nail it down yet. Hardison continued to work on Don Lazzara, which meant he would be out the whole night when he finally went to sleep.

While voting in one window, he kept himself engaged in a few different conversations in the group. One of them was one pretty good discussion about fighting styles – but there was one about an issue that seemed to trouble all of them: did Buck bleach his hair to have a few lighter wisps, or it was _au naturel?_

His despair reached the highest level possible.

Click. Click. Click.

Florence started to rub her eyes more frequently, and she had trouble concentrating on her bluish messages. He made a pause in watching episodes, said his head hurt. They were all tired, and they were all waiting to finish their work to go to sleep. Except him – he was waiting for them to go to sleep. He needed peace, not sleep.

“I have him,” Hardison voice jumped in at the moment when he realized that he would have to express some _opinion_ on Buck’s hair.

“Goon A, ladies and gentleman.” The hacker continued, slowly, stiffly, dragging himself up from the sofa. He found one good, clear picture and displayed it on the screens. “His name is Wayne Matthias Bauman, former State Police officer. You were right. Discharged after investigations.”

“Goon A sounds simpler,” he said, eyeing the guy. He looked younger than forty there, but still completely normal… yet, his competence wasn’t doubtful.

“Hi, Patrick.” They all turned at the sound of Nate's voice from the dining table.

He held his phone, and he just smiled at them while waiting for Bonnano to reply. “Something came to my mind – totally not connected with anything we're working on – but you don’t have an informant, or undercover cop in Don Lazzara’s mob, or Knudsen’s part of it, do you? Why? So you _do_ have someone? It figures…. just for the sake of my mental health, and for the sake of your informant’s health in general… it isn’t, by any chance, a guy named Wayne Matthias Bauman? No? Great, thank you. That’s a relief. By the way, Coddington is still here seeing his therapist, or – ah, went to Portland? Good to him. Say hi to him from Leverage Consulting and Associates, will you?” Nate smirked and ended the call, nodding to Hardison. “I had to check. This guy was accused of collaborating with the mob, but they couldn’t prove it – discharge was the best option. Are you done with that, now?”

“I still have to check all the articles and see which ones have been pulled down, and put them up again, and check the responses, and-”

“Tomorrow. I’ll need you tomorrow to go out with Sophie and me – without _sensory deprivation_ you won’t be able to do it.”

“I would, I’m much better,” Hardison said, but it was clear how tired he was. “Okay, I’ll sleep now.” He turned off the search results, bringing their episodes back on the screens, and went to crash into his bed. Eliot just smiled when he saw him quickly tucking Parker into the bed by his.

“I’ll go upstairs, if you don’t need me.” Nate leaned on the shelf, watching him and Florence working. He had a bunch of papers in his hands. “Any progress with the fans?”

That question needed an hour reply – what, to tell him about Buck’s bleached streaks? -  so he just grumbled, “No.”

“Can you ask if any of them are located in Boston? We might need concrete help tomorrow.”

“I know that one admin is definitely from Boston, she mentioned that pitchforks and torches are ready in her backyard. Ten of them are in Boston for sure.”

Florence was just yawning when he mentioned the pitchforks and torches, and she almost choked.

“She was half kidding,” he quickly explained. “The torches are ready, but the pitchforks have yet to be delivered.”

“Nice shirt,” Nate said before Florence could articulate her response to that.

“Yes, Sophie’s taste is impeccable indeed.” He smiled at him. “Have you noticed the little black roses spread over the fabric that's one shade darker? So… classy.”

“Goes well with black pants, doesn’t it?”

“Ah, not again. Tell me,” Florence said. “Or I’ll try to guess, and it won’t be good.”

“We should sleep now, alright? It’s late,” Nate said.

“I see.” She glanced at him, completely dressed. In the bed. “Well, if anything happens, wake me up. I won’t be able to stay awake much longer.”

“Sure. Today I saw a hurricane unleashed, I won’t hesitate to summon it up again.”

She murmured something unintelligible, picked up her laptop and retreated to the bathroom. Blushing looked good on her, he had to admit.

He tried to erase his smile when he turned to Nate, but he didn’t see it, he was looking at George near his head. Again with that strange expression. George seemed to withdraw from his eyes, so he cleared his throat, forcing Nate to turn to him again.

“Call Sophie and tell her to call me when she is near the apartment tomorrow. Just in case,” he said.

“Already told her. Are you expecting any particular trouble tonight, or do you just want to be prepared?”

“There’s no difference.”

“Do you need me here?”

“No. Just lower your blinds too, and stay away from windows. I’ll call you if something happens.”

Nate turned off the episodes and went upstairs, and in the less than ten minutes, after Florence returned and occupied her sofa, silence spread over the room.

Finally.

The conversation about fighting styles had died though he was trying to keep it alive as long as he could. The quarrel about Buck’s hair, unfortunately, continued endlessly.

It took one more hour to bring M7 to second position, right behind Supernatural.

He got up, silently, and went to kitchen to make more coffee, turning off all the lights, leaving only one small one on the working table and in the kitchen. The laptop with the surveillance program was on the dining table so he brought it to his bed, to keep an eye on the cameras.

Sitting in the bed was resting, but it was an unnatural position, and he was stiff and slow while moving from bed to bed, checking on them.

Parker was a small ball. Hardison snored on his back. Florence was curled up with Orion. He could hear Nate’s pacing the room upstairs, though he tried to be as silent as possible; the only sound that mixed with quiet purring.

Everything under control.

The sound of Nate’s steps diminished, covered with a soft whisper of the rain.

He turned off the kitchen light, and put on the new knife holster.

 

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	31. Chapter 31

 

 

Chapter 31

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***

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It took Eliot several minutes to notice that the cameras were dead. Orion was occupying his attention, galloping up and down the room. He had to remove him from the kitchen counters twice, and that triggered this lunatic ride, accompanied by strange sounds, loud and pissed off. The cat sounded like a dying walrus, and he almost started to worry, having no idea what to do to calm him down before he woke everybody up.

Laser pointers worked only a few minutes, but fortunately, he jumped into one half open bag under the window and started playing with things inside. If he chewed some sensitive electronic equipment…well, that was Hardison’s problem.

When he checked the cameras again, black, dead screens met his gaze.

Two minutes, no more, he had been sidetracked with the cat. Hardison had one camera in their hallway, one at the entrance of the building, covering both that and the stairs that led to McRory’s, only a few meters away, and one near the back entrance, put there after the slaughterhouse incident. He also controlled two street cameras near the building, just in case. Those two were still working, which meant that the three in their building, all of them on the same power supply, went simultaneously…

In answer to his thoughts, the small light on the working table, the only one he had on, went off, and complete darkness swept over the room.

A good move. Cut the cameras first, give the men time to move closer unnoticed, and then leave the entire building the darkness, giving them the perfect playground.

Of course, it was a bad move at the same time.

He checked the time – the laptops were still working, giving him enough light to see everything. Three a.m.

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***

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“There's no time for that shit, Hardison!”

Eliot’s voice, raised in a tense whisper, woke Florence up. She blinked a few times, disorientated in the darkness, then found them all, awake, at the dining table. The four laptops cast an eerie bluish light on their faces.

She dragged herself from the bed, wrapped in a robe over pajamas, and joined them.

“Cameras dead, lights off, unknown number of men around the building,” Nate greeted her.

“And because of that ‘unknown number’, I should go too,” Hardison said.

“To do what?” Eliot was putting a jacket on, slowly and very carefully. “To trip on them? No, that’s my job. Stay here.”

“You’re the only one that fights?” Florence asked before thinking. “Or trips?”

“Yes, Ma’am,” he drawled. “Muscle for hire. I clear the way.” He turned to Hardison again. “If they pass by me, you’ll have a chance to do something. I suggest you use the table or chairs to knock them out when they burst through the door, but I’m not sure you're able to lift them up. Too heavy for you, geek boy.”

Florence was looking at Hardison at that moment, so she noticed the twitch, even in the dim light. The hacker took one quick breath, and forced his reply to turn into a smile – it was so untypical for him that it captured all her attention.

“Yeah, you’re right. A chair’s definitely too heavy for me,” he said softly.

Eliot also noticed the unusual tone instead of banter, darting the hacker a sharp glance, but he had no time to talk. He just turned and disappeared from the circle of light. They didn’t hear doors opening and closing.

Parker went to lock the doors behind him, but Florence looked at Hardison who wore that pained smile for a few more seconds, before he was able to erase it.

“Idiot,” the hacker sighed, his voice normal again. “And we're blind, can’t see shit. And deaf. Nate, you should’ve made him use-”

Nate shook his head. “No, he was clear – the earbud would be a distraction, he will use it only if necessary. He needs concentration now. And complete silence. He took a phone, it’ll be enough.”

Parker returned to the table and sat, without a word.

“What now?” Florence asked.

“Now, we wait,” Nate said. She glanced at him, at one half of his face lit by the monitor. He leaned on the table with both hands, and stared at the three dead video feeds with intense concentration, as they were playing thrilling action. Maybe they were, for him – because his frown was deep and tense.

No matter how hard she tried to hear anything, the only thing she heard was the rustle of rain.

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***

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Eliot knew where he would find the first attacker. The back rooms of McRory’s Bar weren’t easy to navigate through for someone who didn’t know the position of the small rooms, storage closets and corridors. The man who turned off the power supply was still there, waiting in the darkness near the switch board. He would stay there until the end, or until his buddies gave him a sign to do something. He wouldn’t use any flashlights, or make any moves.

There were four of them when they grabbed them from apartment and took them to the slaughterhouse – it was a quick strike, smash and grab; they weren’t hiding.

Tonight, secrecy was the key to their plan. And this wasn’t Goon A’s plan. Knudsen was behind this.

One man would be in a getaway car, or two in two cars. The men chosen for this would be the best killers, slick and silent, maybe even hired and not a part of the mob.

He passed the stairs and entered the ground level.

Nobody in the building noticed power going off, it was too late for anybody to be awake. The bar was long closed, too. The only people moving around would be his targets, and as long as he was silent, he had the advantage.

They should’ve been in the building already.

There was no one to be heard.

He acknowledged a tickling of unease – it was a normal sign when things weren’t going as they should, when he had to search for an opponent's every possible move – but he directed all sensors inward. There lay the real danger, in his reactions, his concentration.

For now, the darkness didn’t trigger anything; his heartbeat was much faster than it should’ve been, but that was expected – and he was calm. In the present, in the rooms behind the bar, not somewhere else. The most important thing.

Closing his eyes and listening revealed only deep silence. He moved back, near the stairs and now useless elevator, blocking their route to the upper levels.

Something was wrong about their hesitation.

The stillness around him was impenetrable. Not even the rain could be heard here. His heartbeat was a loud sound.

The ringing of his phone sounded like an explosion.

 _What the fuck?!_ They should’ve known better than to- he cursed and killed the ringing, and put the earbud in his ear.

“Are you nuts?!” he breathed.

“Where are you?” Nate’s voice was tense and quiet.

“Behind the bar. Look, this isn't the time-”

“Stay there, don’t move, just listen,” Nate went on with a hurried whisper. “It’s Knudsen, not some unknown goon. And Knudsen enjoys the game – he is so sure of his superiority, that he prolongs the hunt. He was doing that the whole time. He gave Inspector Lohman everything, because he knows she can’t do anything to him. He gave air pollution monitors to DNR, knowing they are helpless. He agreed to Florence’s terms, and let her go to be hunted. He works in _steps_ , Eliot.”

He scanned the black shadows that surrounded him. “The point?”

“He is bored. He gives his opponents chances, to make the game more interesting – he knows he’ll win one way or another. And he is cautious at the same time, always leaving a back door for unexpected turns.”

“ _Point_ , Nate?!”

“His first step was the cameras. The second step was the electricity, a few minutes after. Why, when he could do both at the same time?”

Fuck. The darkness felt thick and heavy now.

“We are not the target, Eliot. You are.”

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***

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Florence hunched as her stomach churned.

Hardison let out a muffled curse and got up, but Nate grabbed his hand and kept him in his chair. He gave Eliot a second to reply, but no answer came.

Nate continued his quick talk. “He knew we would be watching, waiting for the attack. He isn’t planning on bursting through the door and mass murder, that would make too much noise. He lured you out. If the goons kill you, we’ll be without our most dangerous member – if they get you, he’ll have a weapon for negotiating. The latter is more to his liking, that draws out the game. Get back.”

The silence from the other side was so deep that Florence thought about taking her earbud out and shaking it to see if it worked.

“Eliot?”

“Here, thinking.” When the reply finally came, it was normal and calm. “About messages.”

Hardison growled, low and frustrated. “Get back. Or I’m coming out.”

“What message you want to send Knudsen tonight, Nate?” Eliot ran over Hardison’s words.

Much to her surprise, Nate smiled. “Let’s confuse him a little, shall we? Let him – them – wonder what the hell happened.”

“That can be arranged.” Eliot’s voice was soft now. “Don’t call again, unless it’s something critical. I’m taking the earbud out. Stay there. This will take some time.”

And that was it, his line on the laptop went red.

“You have no idea what ‘ya doing, Nate,” Hardison snarled. Florence watched his face set in anger. “He isn’t ready for this. Pushing him further won’t make it any- let me go with him.”

“No, Hardison. In this matter, he’s the only one who can decide for himself. And he just did. I trust him.”

“I trusted him too, in the slaughterhouse, until I found him almost one fucking second too late! You don’t know, he-” Hardison swallowed, his lips in a thin line. “I had to remove a guy pointing a gun at him, _within his reach_ , and he just stared, lost – Nate – he did nothing. He would kill him if we weren’t there.”

“I know,” Nate said calmly. “He told me.”

“So why are you-”

“Because healing and recovery aren’t the same thing, and he is taking over both of them. Slowly,” Nate glanced at her and stopped. Florence didn’t even try to pretend she wasn’t there.

That glance got Hardison together, too, reminding him of her presence, and he just darted a pissed off stare at Nate, and got up. “I’ll go upstairs. Through the blinds I can see more than from these windows. They must have someone who’s controlling the street. Or more of them – because we don’t know how many of them are out there. Remember?”

“I do,” Nate nodded. “And I’m sure Eliot does, too.”

Hardison let out a low snarl, and strode away. Florence followed him with her eyes; this worry and anger she could understand, but his strange reaction to Eliot’s words about too heavy chairs was bugging her. She quickly went through the remaining episodes, trying to find any potentially dangerous chair lifting, or carrying scene – nobody needed another fight between them, and more fuck-you’s.

The two of them were strange, she thought, pretending to look at her laptop. Every other sentence was some form of arguing, bitching or just teasing, and at the same time she could feel the deep concern in Hardison. Yet, that pained smile showed- she felt Nate’s eyes on her, and she _knew_ he knew what she was thinking about.

“I’ll tell you,” he said. “But not now, okay?”

She shrank back in her chair, avoiding his eyes, avoiding Parker who was glancing back and forth between them.

There was no way to avoid fear.

She closed the laptop with a click that sounded like a gunshot in the silence of the night, and the darkness closed in a little deeper.

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***

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He had to preserve his strength. Quick breathing could give him away, and the plan was to move as little as possible.

The man near the power supply was his first target, and Eliot slid through the blackness, making no sound. The guy wasn’t in a small room, but in the corridor that connected it to other rooms. And he was good. He was just standing there, leaning on the wall, waiting.

It took almost five minutes for one black, soundless shadow to close in on the other who was listening. Eliot directed his path to him, more feeling his presence than hearing anything – his own breathing was too loud in his ears.

The man shifted only once, and that sound gave him his height. Without any window or source of light, there wasn’t any adjusting to the darkness, everything was pitch black.

He slowly raised his left hand, a couple feet away from him, and placed a quick hit to his jaw, near the ear.

The sound of his fall went through the building like an earthquake, shattering the silence.

He took his position by the wall, closed his eyes and listened for the steps, breathing, anything that would show him the position of the others. When he heard nothing, not even after a few minutes, he went into the small chamber and groped until he found rags he could use to tie up the fallen man.

He could drag him with one hand and lock him up, but it would be a waste of strength. He left him lying on the floor, turned his face down, after he cleared all his possessions. Including a gun with a silencer.

He'd already been on his feet too long and sitting down would bring a little more blood into his brain, but the lightheadedness wasn’t serious for now. He knew exactly how much time he had before it affected his doings.

He went back into the middle, taking a spot the killers had to pass to get to the stairs, leaned on the wall and melted into the darkness.

He was good at waiting. And darkness.

By now, they knew he was out of the apartment, somewhere between them. The hunt was on.

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***

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Hardison was silent, which meant it was good, he didn’t see anybody on the street.

That, on the other hand, might mean they were all in the building, Florence corrected herself. Which wasn’t so good.

She joined Parker at the two windows on the wall opposite of the front door, when sitting became unbearable.

“Careful,” Nate said. He thought she needed a warning to stay invisible, great. He was still at the dining table, watching the street cameras. Thinking. Waiting. Minutes stretched into an eternity.

She couldn’t peek down through the blinds, at the main entrance and McRory’s door, she saw only the other side of the street. Hardison was in a better position upstairs, his line of sight was wider.

Still no sounds, except occasional cars passing on the street.

How much fear she could amass before she broke? She hadn't even recovered from the panic in the garage, and now this, again – the fear was like a tidal wave, slowly growing and rising until it got over her head. She was choking already, her breaths came out in fast, panicked bursts.

Orion jumped out of the bag by her feet, and she barely suppressed a scream.

Parker was watching her from the other window, visible only as a shadow dotted with tiny spots of light through blinds, holding a bowl of popcorn she didn’t seem to eat.

“He could use the darkness to attack George again,” Parker said with a level voice, following the blurry white spot on the black floor. “I don’t want Eliot to be upset.”

 _Right, George is his main problem now. Sure._ She cut off a laugh, knowing it would come out as a half cry, too near hysteria.

“Why does Orion hate Eliot?” Parker continued.

“No, he likes him,” she said with effort. Making small talk with a pounding heart wasn’t the easiest thing to do. “He wouldn’t come to him, even once, if he didn’t.”

“Cool.” Parker turned to her now. “So, your cat likes Eliot. Do you like him?”

Nate cleared his throat and got up.

 _What was that?_ “Yes, Parker, I like him. I like all of you. Why?”

“That’s good, we like you too.”

Dear Lord, this was worse than an android – she sounded like the Seventh of Nine in the early days. And she looked like her, blond, half of her bluish and hidden.

But Parker was probably scared just like she was. Maybe _she_ needed a talk to divert her thoughts from the silence. Florence suppressed the nervous edge in her voice and forced herself to continue. “Even when you’re mad at me?”

“We’re not. Nate isn’t, not even Eliot.”

 “Well, he surely fooled me.”

Nate came to them, standing between their two windows. “Have you noticed anything?” he asked. “On the street you’re both watching?”

Parker completely ignored his presence and his words. “Eliot isn’t mad at you. Don’t worry. He said you’re brilliant.”

“What? When?”

“When we talked right before the slaughterhouse.” Parker moved the bowl from one hand to the other, glancing at it. Florence waited. “Oh, not brilliant as in ‘you’re genius’ – not that kind of brilliant. He was not talking about your mind, he talked about your shape.”

Florence stared at her, out of the corner of her eye noticing Nate’s eyes went wide.

“My. Shape,” Florence slowly repeated.

“Parker, weren't you been drunk before the slaughterhouse?” Nate asked quickly.

“Yup,” Parker grinned. “Round is a shape, right? He said you’re round.”

“Round.”

“Round is nice. He said I’m elongated, you’re round. It’s all in the cut.”

She took a deep, slow breath, and held it.

Parker eyed her, obviously realizing something was strange. “Look, it’s complicated to explain to someone who doesn’t know… the round shape is nice, in fact the majority of men like that shape, it’s common and wide spread… the crown is small, but the pavilion is wide enough to endure any pressure. Round is practical, and tough. Elongated is too fragile sometimes.”

Nate produced a strange choking sound, but the blood boiling in her ears muted it almost completely.

“That’s… just rude,” she managed to whisper. “You can’t talk about women like _that_!”

Parker stared at her in utter confusion. “It was the most beautiful thing he had ever said to me,” she said.

“There’s something wrong with you.”

“And that too,” Parker beamed. “But don’t worry, there isn’t anything wrong with _you_ – he said it’s not the material that matters, but what you do to it.” With that, Parker patted her in a friendly manner on her shoulder, and went back to the kitchen.

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***

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Now, he could hear them.

The soft rustle of footsteps coming from a few different directions, barely audible, like rats running in ventilation shafts. The sound of fabric rubbing against other fabric, when one of them bent over while sneaking. A metal cling when someone’s gun touched the button on his jacket.

With his eyes closed, he drew their positions and trajectories in his mind, still not moving, just waiting.

One by one, they would all come to him. Three. Four with the fallen guy. And the driver, somewhere outside.

He calmed his breathing, erasing all the images that were running through his mind, replacing them with _this_ darkness. Inwardly going through all the rooms and corridors, calculating distances and remembering the obstacles and potential weapons on his way was helping, like an anchor.

The first one that showed up stopped several meters away from him, holding a tiny flashlight that gave out no more light than a laser pointer, just enough to light one step in front of him. He moved before the man could notice him, as a shadow darker than the other shadows. _Don’t use the right hand_.

The left one was enough.

People with guns were always slow, unable to quickly adjust their minds from shooting to hitting or defending; once the gun was turned away, posing no threat, they were much easier to knock down than someone who was prepared to use his hands in a fight.

The blows to the thick skull echoed loudly through the silence, and he didn’t have time to tie this one up, he just left him lying on the floor, disarming him first.

Two down.

A memory of collecting a different loot clutched around his heart for a moment, and he held his breath, fighting it. He retreated to the stairs again, and this time he sat, clutching the gun he took.

 _Easy, you moron. Don’t fight it. You’ll lose_.

He monitored the dizziness, his breathing, his pulse, just to concentrate on his body and not on his mind.

He noticed the trembling of his hands only when the bullets in the magazine started to clink quietly.

 _It could’ve been worse_. He could be lost and deranged, and under a panic attack. One of them could’ve been here with him, depending on him and his right reactions.

Yep, this wasn’t bad at all. But he didn’t have much time – his weakness would only grow stronger with every minute, and he had two more to put down.

He weighed all the chances, all the pros and cons, and decided, pointing the gun toward the ceiling and pulling the trigger.  The quiet plops weren’t so quiet.

He stood up, throwing the magazine away, waiting for the quick steps that hurried in his direction, drawn by the shooting.

The smell of gunpowder hit his brain, but this time he wasn’t on the edge of consciousness like he was in the slaughterhouse, he was able to stop the disorientation, moving quickly to meet the killers.

 _Don’t use the right hand_.

He didn’t.

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***

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“Speaking of diamonds and brilliants, she stole the Hope diamond two years ago,” Nate said when they both returned to the dining table and sat. She turned her laptop on again. “And she put it back. It’s insured for 250 million dollars. The most beautiful diamond in the world.” His eyes softened for a moment. Florence huffed, knowing he was just trying to divert her attention from fuming. “Do you know what it looks like?” Nate continued lightly. “It’s an interesting cut, a cushion antique brilliant with a regular crown, a faceted girdle and extra facets on the pavilion. To simplify it – its shape is round, not elongated.”

Oh. Maybe this wasn't just a diversion. She glanced at Parker, reminding herself of how strange she was. She'd had trouble following her train of thought since the beginning, and this was, maybe, just another screw up.

Maybe.

“Tell me about the chairs,” she said after a while. Everything was better than waiting helplessly.

“Not ‘the chairs,’ Florence. Lifting the heavy chairs.” She looked up to meet his eyes. Him studying her face was unnerving her, but he smiled then went on. “You said you recorded our coming in the apartment after That Night. Can you play it?”

She blinked, confused. “I have it recorded, yes, I cut off that sequence for eventual evidence, when I thought you killed – but why?”

“Just play it,” Nate smiled. A brief, dark smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

She found the recording, glancing at Parker. The thief was watching the windows and blinds, and the small dots of street light that penetrated the darkness. Listening.

“Why do you want to watch it now?” she asked Nate, turning the laptop to him, but he stopped her hand.

“No. You watch it. I don’t have to.”

She had learned by now that doing what Nate said was the cleverest thing to do, yet she couldn’t find the logic in his request, not now – until she played the first few seconds.

They had turned off the lights in the corridor, but the open door to the stairs gave off enough light for her motion sensors to catch their movement. She wouldn’t recognize Hardison before all these days they spent together, but now she knew who was the tall shadow behind Nate.

And who was carrying Eliot in his arms, holding him tight, with frantic eyes, talking to him though it was clear he couldn’t hear him. He had only minutes left, she remembered Sophie’s words.

The streak of light when Nate opened the apartment doors revealed, in one clear second, a steady drip of blood down his limp arm, falling to the floor from his fingers. She swallowed the nausea and took a deep breath.

He didn’t know how he got into the apartment, that Hardison carried him, she suddenly figured it out – that’s why he said that about heavy chairs, and Hardison twitched – this surely wasn’t a pleasant memory. He carried him all the way from the van, to the second floor, seemingly easy, as if he wasn’t a grown man, but just a child. And Hardison decided not to tell him.

This, definitely, wasn’t the wisest thing to watch _now_. She stopped the recording and gave Nate a small nod. His silence was a compliment. He knew she would know what he wanted to explain. That could mean they finally started to answer her questions, and she took that as a good sign.

Yet, she knew why he showed her this now, of all the times, to remind her of the consequences, of real danger and death that was around them. Nate never did things by accident, every word, every smile had some meaning. _Yes, Nate, I know this isn’t an episode_ , she wanted to scream at him, but her throat was tight and painfully closed. She learned her lesson, she wouldn’t make the mistake again.

Hardison came down before she decided if she should say something about it, or not.

“The driver from one parked car went into the building over five minutes ago,” he said. “This takes too long, Nate, we should go out.”

“That’s, actually, a great idea.” The quiet voice from the door startled them all, even Parker.

Eliot entered the circle of blue light; he looked no worse than tired, the lines in his face maybe a little deeper. The relief she felt lifted the weight from her shoulders, and she smiled, almost surprised she managed to do that.

“We have five killers, tied up,” Eliot continued, leaning on the chair near Nate, very slowly. “You’ll call Patrick, or what?”

Nate put one finger on his lips. “Or what.  The message isn’t signed, yet.” His eyes were strangely bright. “Hardison, you know their car?”

“Yep.”

“Get a jacket,” Nate stood up, looking at them at the table. “We’ll put the power on. Stay here and rest. There’ll be no more attacks tonight.”

“If you say so,” Eliot’s voice fell to a whisper when he turned around and went to his bed. “Wake me up in three hours.”

“Five,” Parker said.

“Two.”

“Six,” she hissed.

“Stop.”

“Won’t.”

“Nate!!!”

“Go to sleep, Parker,” Nate smiled, and then looked back at her. “If you’re awake in three hours, do as he said.”

She nodded, watching them taking a few things before going out. Parker huffed and turned on her heel, going to her bed.

Eliot stopped by his bed. “Florence.”

She quickly joined him. Orion was sleeping right in the middle of the bed, with his head on the pillow. Eliot watched him with earnest confusion.

“He _does_ like you,” she said, feeling the smile still on her face.

And to her surprise, he smiled too. Maybe it was the cat, maybe it was just weariness, but that smile transformed his face, softening it. “If this is being liked, I really don’t want to see him pissed off.” He went closer and gently stroked his fur, just once, as if uncertain what to do and how. Orion started to purr immediately, almost startling him.

He turned to her again. The combination of confused eyes and that soft smile was… very dangerous.

This man knocked out five men just minutes ago, probably with that same hand, she had to remind herself. But it was in vain. She grabbed Orion just to avoid looking at the warmth in his eyes, and turned to walk away.

Nate had one hand on the door knob, but he was still, watching Eliot. She quickly withdrew to the sofa, still enable to erase her own smile, it remained glued on her face.

God, she was so fucking confused. Scared, confused, smiling, all at the same time. _Hello, nervous breakdown, nice to meet you_. Only one thing she knew for certain. She was scared, yes, but the fear eased its grip when he returned safely.

It was _him_ she feared for.

And that terrified her more than anything.

She curled under the blankets with Orion, while guilt and confusion danced an endless loop in her head. Guilt taking the lead.

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	32. Chapter 32

 

Chapter 32

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***

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Her dreams were troubled with darkness, endless corridors, bleeding men and black shadows in pursuit, and ever constant, terrible fear. She was running, and running, searching every shadow, but every time she thought she caught up with him, the long haired man would just smile – with that maddening, slow smile – and disappear again. And every time she knew that was it, he was lost.

She felt like she'd been beaten to a pulp when she woke up, when she snapped into reality still tinged with that feeling of loss, and fear -  but when she saw an unfamiliar woman sitting at the dining table, Florence managed to get herself together.

Only when the woman straightened herself from the hunched position, removed the scarf wrapped like a turban, and let her dark locks fall free, she did recognize Sophie. She wasn’t supposed to be here. Florence glanced around; only Parker was awake, doing something in the kitchen.

She murmured some sort of good morning – and it _was_ early, a cloudy morning, according to the gray light through the blinds – and went to the bathroom.

When she returned, both of them were thoughtfully studying the back of a cereal box.

She grabbed the coffee cup that waited for her. Her mind was blank and numb, her body ached from tension.

“Yes, but he lost a few pounds,” Sophie continued her explanation. “I say three thousand, five hundred calories a day is the minimum to regain strength.”

Parker took the box and went through the numbers, and Florence could almost see the quick calculations in her eyes. “I’ll check with Betsy, too,” the thief said, surprisingly normal. “But you’re right. I’ll work on it.” With that she got up and took her place on the sofa, pulling cartoons up on the screens with the volume set to the minimum.

Florence sighed and took the first sip of coffee, staring into nothing. She couldn’t believe that she'd had a nightmare about a chase through corridors – so fucking cliché that it was unbelievable. Her brain was able to come up with brilliant plots, but her sub consciousness was obviously at soap opera level. _How wonderful_. She still felt the edge of that fear, it followed her into the waking state, and she didn’t dare look towards the hospital bed.

“Weren’t you supposed to call before coming so Eliot could wait for you somewhere?” she asked after a while.

Sophie glanced over two beds at the other side of the room. “You had a tiresome night,” she said gently. “And if ever comes a time when Sophie Devereaux can’t go somewhere unnoticed, it’ll be my last day on the job. Even if the building was being monitored, they didn’t see _me_. Nor Inspector Lohman.”

“Nate’s still upstairs?” she asked.

“Yes, all three of our men are sleeping like babies.”

She put a sugar in her coffee and took one of the chocolate croissants that Sophie brought for breakfast, trying not to search for a hidden meanings in her words. It was just a kind of expression.

“Maybe I would have come later, if I hadn’t received a message at four in the morning, to buy organic food coloring,” Sophie continued, putting an emphasis on organic, tilting her head to a set of small bottles that sat like a rainbow on the kitchen counter. “What’s wrong?”

Her question followed her last words so smoothly that it took Florence three seconds to notice it. She looked up directly into her gaze.

“Bad dreams,” she said lightly. _And, oh, by the way, I wanted to kiss your team member last night because he smiled at me_. She couldn’t say _that_. “And it was almost dawn when I finally – I waited, we all waited until Nate and Hardison returned.”

“Parker was just saying something about it before you got up. Everything went well?”

“Yes, they transported them deep into the woods, somewhere, tied up and blindfolded, in pitch dark,” she quickly said, grateful for that change of subject. “They’ll free themselves and find the way back, but it’ll take time. As far as Knudsen is concerned, his killing party disappeared without a trace or an explanation. Even when they return, they won’t be able to tell him anything concrete. Eliot said that they didn’t know who hit them or how.”

Sophie pursed her lips in delight, her eyes shone. “That’ll surely give him material to think about.” She titled her head towards hospital bed. “And how’s he?”

Why was she asking _her_? What was that supposed to mean? She tore the croissant in one too uncontrolled move, leaving crumbs all over the table. _Maybe because you’re the only one at the table, you stupid_.

“Not bad,” her voice came out as a squeak. She cleared her throat and went on normally. “And he wasn’t in a bad mood when he returned, surprisingly. Nor hurt,” she added as an afterthought, not sure what exactly Sophie wanted to know.

She collected the crumbs and added more sugar to her coffee. The dark eyes were steady on her.

Was she that transparent to her? It was expected for her to be distressed and nervous – hello, nasty people were trying to kill her – and why then did she have a feeling that everybody knew how much _he_ occupied her thoughts? Not everybody, though… Hardison wasn’t a man who would notice something like that. Nate seemed to be too intellectually driven to notice feelings. She was sure his studying them was purely academic interest, nothing more. Parker was out of this world and unable to detect – wait, unless her strange speech last night wasn’t some sort of message, warning, threat, whatever… and maybe Nate only looked academic, hiding his real…Jesus, she had to stop with this, immediately. They _weren’t_ going around plotting about her misplaced feelings. It was just her guilty conscience stabbing her.

“How do you know he wasn’t?” Sophie asked when the silence spread.

“What?”

“In a bad mood and hurt.”

Oh. _Sophie knows_. This was a way to tell her that she knew, obviously. Or it wasn’t? That surely did provide the perfect cue for her if she wanted to talk about it. She stopped squirming at the last moment. _This is just small talk at breakfast, for crying out loud_. She was the one who was giving it all hidden meanings, not Sophie.

“He said so,” she shrugged, acting casual. “What are we going to do today?” Without Nate to stop it, there was a possibility that someone would give her the real answer.

“You have to ask Nate about that.” Or not. 

She put a piece of croissant in her mouth and reached for the sugar, but Sophie reached a hand and stopped her. She looked at her, confused.

“It would be the third time you’re putting sugar in your cup, dear,” she said gently.

For one long moment she desperately wanted to tell her what was happening with her – but she couldn’t. Saying that out loud would mean it was real, would _make_ it real. For now, keeping it to herself, she could think that it was just hormones, pheromones, or some other shit at work. That it wasn’t anything serious.

She chewed the croissant. It was dry. “’M not a m’rning person,” she mumbled.

“Why don’t you go and sleep a little more? You do look pale and tired.”

The croissant tasted like ash, and it took some time before she was able to swallow it and speak again. “No, I have to write more articles, I have two sets of interview questions to answer, and I have to work on my notes…” she trailed off, suddenly realizing that all her papers and working materials were on the board by the working table and Eliot’s bed, where they worked yesterday. She looked to see what was the most quiet way to drag the board away. “Wait, he said to wake him up in three hours – you let him sleep much longer. Maybe I should wake-”

It was pure luck she noticed the top of one white ear, and she quickly got up.

“Excuse me,” she whispered and hurried away.

Orion was standing in her chair, staring at Eliot, and she knew she came in the last moment before he tried to paw his face or hand. She grabbed him, thinking about _how_ to wake Eliot up. The last time she was near his bed, he woke up just because she was watching him.  A loud 'good morning' should be enough. Or coughing. Maybe it wasn’t clever to stir him too suddenly, because his arm was wrapped around his chest, and though he was turned away from her, with hair covering his face, he seemed tense even in sleep.

A hand landed on her shoulder and pulled her back – she turned around to face Parker. With grim, hard eyes fixed on her.

“What-”

“I do the waking up,” she stated quietly. “Only me.”

“Okay, Parker,” she whispered carefully, taking a step back. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

She took Orion and retreated back to Sophie, feeling trapped between a rock and a hard place, literally. Sophie was, if nothing, easier to understand. The rock at her back, well, wasn’t.

She had to make her life easier; no more contemplating about other men, no more thinking about other men, strictly business, nothing more. She could do it. And no dreaming – definitely no dreams and nightmares. It was only a few more days, and this confusion would stop, just like that.

The last thing she saw, before forbidding herself to look in that direction, was Parker climbing the lower railings of the bed, at Eliot’s feet, and sitting there like a vulture.

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***

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“Good morning, Eliot. Good morning, George.”

He snapped awake.

And he couldn’t breathe.

Fuck, this was much worse than any damn night before – all the shit he blocked yesterday, blocked and controlled and suppressed, raged through his head at the same time. He was a bloody fool when he thought that waking up once with only Tapia voting was progress.

He stared at Parker for a few seconds, trying to guess if she was really there  - alive - or he just imagined it, but there was nothing he could cling to, nothing that would show him for real, until she tilted her head a little, darting him a small evil smile, and nudged his foot with hers.

Only then did he manage to breathe in.

“Go away, Parker,” he whispered. She nodded, grinned once more, and disappeared.

 _You knew it wouldn’t be easy_.

He waited until his breathing became normal again, assessing all the pains. He spared his right arm as much as he could, but even a normal repositioning was painful sometimes. He regretted, every day, that he constantly refused to put it in a sling like Betsy asked – that would disturb his entire balance and slow him down.

He slowly sat up, feeling every muscle still trembling, and reached to the table to turn on the laptop. Work would divert his attention, until he was good enough to enter the kitchen.

Then he looked at George, to check if Orion was near him again, and met an accusing gaze. _Fuck_. The enemy was sleeping in his bed last night. He even _touched_ him.

He would never hear the end of this.

This day was going to suck big time, he just knew it.

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***

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“Fuck!”

He simply couldn’t stand it anymore.

He pushed the laptop away – Florence caught it before it fell to the floor from the bed – and ran both hands through his hair. Tearing it out wouldn’t have any practical benefit, though.

Fucking time zones. The fans were spread out all over the world, there was no rest, no quiet time, no damn silence. He thought that argument about Buck’s hair would die out during the night, but damn Australia jumped in just when Europe – babbling idiots with strange accents – went to sleep. Or vice versa, he lost track of the time.

“Problem, Eliot?” Nate’s calm voice came from the dining table. He was concentrated on his laptop, not watching him at all. “You can’t stand, eh, anxiety?”

“Don’t,” he growled, low and meaning every damn syllable of it. Nate just raised his eyebrows, darting him a wry smile, continuing to work on the details of a job on which he, again, couldn’t join them.

Sophie shot a disapproving glare at him, tsk’ed twice, and returned to reading a bunch of Hardison’s papers.

He'd listened to their preparations for the last two hours and anger grew in him, slowly but steadily. The four fans from Boston immediately said they’d join any action against C4, and he directed them to Nate. Including the redheaded admin with the pitchforks. And with that, his involvement in their ‘going out later’ was finished.

Hardison had been pacing up and down the room for the past hour, working on his tablet and a phone, arranging deliveries, meeting points, and all the small details, at the same time showing everybody how good and healthy he felt, and how his vision had improved. Lucky bastard. He hated him. Deeply.

Parker was sulking in the kitchen. She had to stay, too. He made a mental note to check later what she was doing, exactly, because every now and then he heard suspicious chopping sounds, and Parker with a knife wasn’t something that should be left unsupervised.

He forced himself to stay in bed, to not get up, because he knew he wouldn’t stop pacing the room for hours. And he couldn’t allow himself to do that. He honestly didn’t know if he hated his condition, or his own restrictions more.

George was still silently sulking, and because of Florence sitting by his bed, he couldn’t explain anything to him. If he suddenly started talking to a tree, the poor woman would probably run off screaming. He remembered that for later, though, to use it in case if he _needed_ her to run off screaming. That would solve many problems.

At least he didn’t have to talk; Florence was strangely silent, seemingly deeply concentrated on her typing. He checked her doings every few minutes, and he couldn’t see her doing anything more complicated that she did the day before. Her tension and bad mood were easy to read no matter how well she hid them, and it was making him even more nervous.

They didn’t watch any episode this morning, he was too occupied with voting, because they had to vote more on the PVA page too. One of the group's Scouts… a cute little teenage geek – sent out the warning. Florence confirmed from Twitter that their opponents were gathering for the final round there, to press hard during the last few days. So he spent three hours clicking all around, completely losing track of where he was and what he was doing. He was pretty sure he voted for Castle more than ten times– and while he was waiting for the PVA page to refresh, a picture of some blond boy with a crown on his head kept popping up, driving him completely insane.

They had to vote for the PVA more, and that meant they were losing the fight with Castle and Supernatural. He felt like dog chasing his own tail.

And the thing that pissed him off the most, in the last post in the group, was someone’s joy over a plot of some other C4 show. They still watched that crap, bringing C4 money, indirectly supporting the executives' cancellation decision.

But no more.

He took the laptop back from Florence, ignoring her worried eyes for now. There would be time to be nice, later, after he dealt with this shit.

Since he started in the group he'd only replied to posts, commenting on others – it was time for his first post. No more Mr. Nice-Guy-Who-Understands-Women.

He hit the New Post button.

_“Can someone explain to me why you bother to vote at all, when all of you, at the same time, are doing everything possible to promote C4, support their decision to cancel, raise their ratings, and bring them more money??!! Are you secretly exchanging messages about how to further help C4?! Every fucking time you watch an episode of their other shows, you put a nail in the M7 casket, because Nielsen records it, adding, and adding and adding numbers, showing everybody that they DO NOT NEED the small group of M7 fans, that they do not need a season six of M7, because they are doing great without it! Are you fucking stupid, or what? Stop watching C4 – tell everybody you know to stop watching it – don’t DVR their episodes, spread the word, hit them where it hurts. If they see how many people are boycotting their other shows, and if they are informed that the M7 fans started it, they’ll rethink their decision. If Fizzoli & Islands drops to under 2 million, if Imperceptions and Santa Barbara go that way too, they’ll remember that Magnificent Seven had more than 3 million without any promoting and help!! And if any of you reply with a fucking 'YAY', I’ll find you, and I’ll kill you! Is that clear?”_

He hit _post_ , and sat back with a sigh. He would probably be banned because of this… but who cared.

“Hardison,” he called to the hacker who was just passing by, typing. “Can you crack Nielsen? I want that motherfucker dead and smoking.”

“I can,” Hardison grinned. “But not now. I’m working on hacking DNR, to get into their laboratories, and it ain’t easy, it takes time. But I’ll put Nielsen on the list.”

“Good,” he grumbled. He avoided Florence’s eyes, strangely large against her pale face. She pretended she was occupied with her screen.

A consternated silence followed his post, untypical for the busy group where replies were popping up every second.

Finally, one ping. He checked the comment.

The first reply was, of course, ' _yay_ '.

He growled and pushed the laptop away, again. Florence had to catch it. _Again_.

But when he looked at the dining table, he noticed a small smirk on Nate’s face. He hadn't looked in their direction the entire time, he only looked at his laptop.

Well, damn.

“You bastard,” he said.

“What?” Nate raised his eyes, with a slow blink.

“You just replied with that yay. Do you think I need fucking supervision?!”

“It’s easier to take a look at your handiwork from time to time, than to talk about it, isn’t it?” Nate seemed to be having immense fun, judging by his controlled features. “Besides, I’m a control freak, remember – and your reports were scarce. Though I understand why you were reluctant to inform us of _your_ theory about Buck’s hair problems.”

He produced a choked sound.

“And, by the way, thank you for the title of “Scout” you made for my insecure teenage ass – it was incredibly nice of you.”

“I’ll ask Boss Lady to ban you,” he growled.

“Yay!”

“Type one more yay, Nate, just one more yay, and the hand that typed it will be served as tomorrow’s lunch!”

“Speaking of lunch….” Parker appeared by his elbow with a green bowl, grinning. “One thousand, three hundred and forty calories. For breakfast. Lunch will soon follow.”

 _What?_ He looked at Sophie. Sophie tilted her head and smiled innocently.

“What the hell is that, Parker?”

“Cereal, whole grain cereal, chopped fruit and some vegetables.”

“Vegetables?! Are you f-”

“Oops,” she reached into the bowl, stirred something, and hid that hand behind her back. “There, no vegetables. My mistake.”

He covered his eyes with his hand. He knew she would still be there when he removed his hand. The urge to stay like that for the rest of the day was unbearable.

Their ability to be annoying as hell right when he was on the edge of snapping completely never ceased to surprise him. Growling, yelling and jumping out of the bed would scare Florence even more, he reminded himself.

He removed his hand, set his face into a smile, and took a deep breath.

“Thank you, Parker,” he purred. “I’ll eat that, definitely, just not now, okay?”

“No problem, I’ll wait.”

Florence pushed the laptop back in his hands. This time, her eyes were less worried and more stern. He had a feeling that if he pushed it away one more time, he would get it thrown at his head.

He closed his eyes, and wished for mafia killers bursting through the door.

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***

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“Quick briefing, people!” Hardison called them just when replies to his post started to pour in – the majority of them positive and full of energy. He quickly liked them all, and went to the sofa. He remembered to take George with him, placing him beside the chair in which he sat – no more squeezing onto the sofa, and no more silent attacks behind his back.

This way he could keep an eye on George, and Orion, and all the crazy people around him.

His plan worked perfectly. Nate took the opposite chair, Hardison stood with the remote, Florence and Sophie took the sofa – but Parker avoided them all, and sat on the armrest of his chair. Holding, innocently, the bowl in her hands.

He ignored her.

If he asked Nate to change places, she would simply follow him. The vision of Parker following two steps behind him, with the damn bowl, the entire day, was very, very real.

Hardison waved the remote, putting the DNR building on the screens. “During the day I’ll be able to tell you the entire process for the air pollution monitors, all the apartments and laboratories that are included in the process, and the exact collection and return times.”

“Positions?” Nate asked.

“In the woods around the sand excavation camp,” Hardison said cautiously. “In the mud, rain, thorny bushes, animals, armed killers-”

“Make a map and mark their positions, Hardison.”

Parker nudged him with her elbow, raising the spoon. He ignored her and looked at Nate. Hardison was much better, but he wasn’t yet able to plod through the woods to find the monitors. Not today. Maybe tomorrow.

Orion innocently walked behind his chair – he knew exactly where the beast was because Florence was following him with her eyes, ready to jump up from the sofa if he tried any sneaking around George.

He glanced to his left – George was within his reach, tense and ready for attack.

Parker started to stir things in the bowl, making clicking sounds a foot from his ear.

He ignored her, listening to Hardison’s explanation about the laboratories. It took too long.

“What about Nielsen?” he stopped him after one more minute of geek babble. “I sent you everything that the people in the group know about their rating system – have you seen it?  Nielsen is a piece of shit that already buried a few good shows, it’s archaic, unreliable, it doesn’t count internet watching, and it has to go down before it ruins more. The C4 Board of Directors will use it as one more reason to keep their decision. Kill it.”

“I surely won’t kill Nielsen, are you nuts?!” Hardison waved his remote. “I can infiltrate their databases and work on them, change a few things, make the numbers look better or worse. Subtlety, Eliot – not everything needs to be punched down!”

“Don’t care, kill it. I want it dead.”

“No.”

Nate raised a warning hand. “Wait, wait. If we can use Nielsen in our favor, that’s better than killing it.”

“Okay, use it, _then_ kill it.”

“But why?”

“I hate it. My entire group hates it. Every sane being on this planet hates it. Is that enough?”

“Oh,” Sophie raised her eyebrows. “You’re nervous.”

Jesus, these people… he took a deep breath, smiled and looked away, trying not to show which level of insanity he was dancing on at the moment.

Florence’s eyes were wide open, and it seemed she didn’t breathe at all. Okay, he was slightly nervous and in a hurry, not having time for useless chatting when there were evil viewership systems to kill – but her reaction was way too-

Only when he felt something in his hair, he did realize that she was still watching Orion, who was now on the book shelf behind his back, trying to catch his hair.

He ignored him, too.

If he continued ignoring everything and everybody around him, was there a chance that they would simply disappear? He was almost ready to give it a try.

Florence distracted the cat with a red dot, and Hardison, after frowning at him, continued with the DNR building, combining that action with the action with the fans – his fans – that they prepared for the afternoon.

He pulled out his phone and continued to vote. Ignoring mode at its best. He didn’t miss how that disturbed Hardison’s babble, and without looking at him, he knew that the significant pauses in his speech were made when he glared at him.

“Okay, that’s enough,” Nate sighed after some time. “The rest of it can wait until we return. Go back to whatever you were doing – I’ll finish the last arrangements with your people, Eliot, and then we’ll go.”

“My people? Geeky fans, _my people_?” he hissed, pointing his thumb at Florence. “Her show, her people, her fans.”

“Yeah, whatever,” Nate got up, glancing at his watch. “Episodes?”

“The middle of the third season.”

“Hurry it up, the PVA ceremony is closing in.”

As if he didn’t know that.

“Nate?” Florence said her first word since the briefing started, and it sounded so small that all of them, including him, turned to look at her.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

Wow, this _was_ a day to remember. Eliot watched Nate who stopped mid step, _touched_ by the pleading in her eyes. Unbelievable.

Nate hesitated a few seconds, but her eyes were steady on him, waiting.

“You said an important thing about Brewer, Florence.” Even his voice was softer when he spoke to her. “That he is _nice_. That is our way in, we’ll use that to make him, and the Board of Directors, change their minds. We’ll do him no harm, if that’s what’s bothering you.”

She watched him a moment, then smiled and nodded.

They all got up to return to their work. 

He cleared his throat. “Nate?” he said in his best attempt at a small voice, and Nate twitched, again stopping the middle of a step.

“I don’t have to go on Facebook anymore, right?” he looked at him with wide, pleading eyes.

“Oh boy,” Nate closed his eyes for a second, then wheeled and stormed away.

Damn. But it was worth trying it.

He took George and returned to the bed, to his little precious laptop friends, yay.

The first thing he did, before even checking all the replies on his post, was to find and join the Supernatural and Castle Vote and Promote groups.

 _Adapt_.

The bowl followed him.

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	33. Chapter 33

 

Chapter 33

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***

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Probing the ticking time bomb wasn’t such a clever idea, but Sophie knew she was safe as long as she didn’t touch the red wires. This morning, unfortunately, it seemed that all Eliot’s wires were red. The first sign was his pissed off glare at her, when he realized she had come all by herself, not calling him to escort her into the apartment, and it continued that way.

She had let him sleep and rest a little more then he said, but no matter that he really needed it after the fight last night, it was a mistake.  The sharp edge returned to his eyes, and tension coiled in knots inside him, visible in every move. For him, sleep still wasn’t rest, but a struggle.

She kept silent, poking at him occasionally just to check his pulse, waiting.

Her directing Parker to follow after him proved to be a good move. There wasn’t a better thing to judge his mood and state than watching his interaction with the thief. She was, also, the best calming factor. It didn't matter that Parker was a constant annoyance, and most often the cause, only she was able to stop him from real raging. She could get away with almost anything with him, after the initial explosion of growling and yelling.

This time it proved to be true, again. It only took fifteen minutes before he ate her breakfast after she followed him back to the bed with it – and he was probably completely convinced he did it just to stop her. Not to please her, no way.

When he passed the dining table to return the bowl into the kitchen – which was just an excuse to get up and spend some nervous energy – Sophie offered him coffee. He refused.

So, he _was_ aware of his tension and twitching nerves. That was good. Her offer to help him with whatever he was doing with the largest sauce pot in Nate’s kitchen was refused as well, though he stood by the table while waiting for the water to boil. Those minutes went by in silence because he took her papers and quickly scanned through them.

She was currently working on information about silica pollution and the DNR procedures that Hardison obtained. Olivia Lohman had to know the basics, and even if there wasn’t any need to apply that knowledge, it would give her a much needed background.

Nate, sitting at the other end of the table, flashed just one look in their direction, found nothing unusual, and continued to work.

Well, this _wasn’t_ something unusual, she had to agree. Even in Betsy’s strict orders, Eliot going into the kitchen, and doing things there, wasn’t forbidden. Yet, when he gave her papers back and turned around, she felt his silence deepen.

All her sensors started sending the same alarming signal.

He was working in the kitchen, she could hear things clanging, boiling water, his moves, he was there, less than two meters away – and at the same time she felt as if he wasn’t even in the room. Even the annoyance was gone.

She didn’t turn around to look at him.

Cooking always relaxed him, she tried to reassure herself. Maybe she put too much meaning into his silence and this strange calmness. It wouldn’t be the first time that he calmed himself down in a second. She quickly checked the papers he’d been looking at, but there wasn’t anything important. No, something else was going on.

After fifteen minutes she cast a sideways glance at him, while grabbing her cup.

He used the big sauce pot to blanch almonds, she saw. The big pile on the counter was already cleaned and finished, and he was spreading them out to dry.

He wiped his hands, slowly, looking at them, but then he felt her watching him. His eyes became noticeably more intent. He twitched a smile at her, but his eyes remained strained.

“Keep an eye on them, will ya?” he said lightly. “It’ll take at least one hour for them to dry completely. Keep the cat away.”

She schooled her face into gentle blankness. “Sure, we’ll be here at least three more hours, Hardison is still working on some details.” Nate raised his eyes when he heard her voice, but Eliot just nodded.

She followed him with her eyes when he returned to the bed to continue with Facebook and watching episodes; still slow and controlled moves, but somehow… lighter.

Something had changed.

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***

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The papers which Olivia Lohman took from Knudsen during her first official visit were mainly documents, permits, studies and contracts, and Sophie was busy sorting them and making notes. Yet, half of her brain was turned outward, catching everything around her.

It seemed that there was nothing to catch. The day looked like a usual, calm day in the office, in spite of the hospital feeling. Nate was doing who knows what, probably spying on Eliot’s fans again. Hardison and Parker occupied Florence’s sofa. Hardison brought a printer to the small table, and dragged the two big boards closer. One was covered with papers, and he was working on filling the second. Parker was lying down on her stomach, with her head on her hands, studying the blueprints. Sophie couldn’t tell which building was in question, but knowing Hardison, he found every blueprint of every building that might be mentioned. The thief wasn’t taking notes.

The other working console, with the other pair, occupied the grifter much more.

She knew Eliot well enough to see his decision _to be nice_ ; she’d seen that too many times during the few past days, but surprisingly, this time she sensed much less effort in that. They were watching the episodes on his laptop, stopping them every few minutes to do different things on Facebook and Twitter, and in the beginning they were surrounded by an aura of busy concentration. She could hear Florence commenting, quietly, not to disturb the others, like she did every time they watched the show, but this time Eliot didn’t just listen.

Sophie had to suppress a smile a few times, monitoring how his questions went from short objections that needed short answers, to more complicated ones that started conversation. It took more than a half an hour for Florence to loosen up and soften her posture from her tight defensive tension. She didn’t, really, have a chance; he wasn’t flirting, just relaxed and his old charming himself.

It _was_ grifting in the beginning; he did it for her… but Sophie noticed when he stopped doing it on purpose, involved in the conversation just like Florence was. They were discussing something they watched, and from a few words she managed to hear, it was about action sequences. Well, it was just a matter of time before he would finally decide to say something about it – even she could see several major mistakes. On the other hand, she watched a professional in action every day, and her standards were much higher.

It was arguing, and it wasn’t – they were pointing at the screen, explaining, pausing sequences, exchanging replies in quick staccato, going back to stare stubbornly at problematic moves – and the whole time it looked as if they were having a good time.

She was pleased to see a few boyish smiles; it had been too long since she'd seen them – but that only reminded her that she hadn't heard him laugh since That Night.

Florence laughed several times, though she muffled it almost immediately with a hand over her mouth to not disturb the others – and it was good to hear that sound, too.

“I wonder when dear Jethro is due home from New Zealand,” a low voice from the other side of the table interrupted Sophie’s thoughts, and she looked at Nate. He was watching her watching them. His sentence had an ominous tone in it – but he always knew how to sum every problem up. “You were right,” he continued. “This _isn’t_ a flirting.”

She knew he would pay attention after her cues, and she wondered what he saw while she wasn’t there.

“It’s not alarming yet,” she said.

“Alarming?” he raised his eyebrows. “What do you mean? You don’t think… I mean, a little emotional involvement isn’t such a bad thing for him. When you’re half dead, it helps you to feel alive. And that’s exactly what he needs right now – to feel alive.”

She stared at him, digesting it, feeling a familiar annoyance. “Yes, for a tortured, very weak man – fragile, no matter how strange that word sounds when he’s in question – emotional involvement with a married woman is definitely something to look forward to. He surely needs one more thing to break him on an entirely new level. Just for a change. You’re a bloody idiot, Nate.”

“And you’re too romantic,” he said with a smile. “This isn’t turning into a love story, we have cases to solve. That will occupy the most of our time, and their time. Look at this like a romantic subplot, something to add a little flavor for them. He is not a fool, Sophie, you keep forgetting that. You can’t fight attraction, but you can fight it evolving into something else, when there are too many obstacles.”

“Personal experience?” she smiled coldly.

His smile broadened. “You could say that.” He turned his head away from her, watching the two. Eliot was drawing something on a piece of paper, and Florence peered into it, and giggled. He rolled his eyes, added something more and showed it to her again, but it only made her chuckle more. “Besides,” Nate continued when Florence took the paper and started scratching things on it, “maybe we're putting too much into it. You definitely do.”

“Something that could make trouble for him shouldn’t be taken lightly.”

“But you’re forgetting that it’s much better to have a pretty blonde troubling his mind, and heart, than everything else he is fighting right now. If she can give him a diversion – and I know it’s not fair to her to think like that, but hell… she is normal, Sophie, a glimpse of the clean, nice world, fresh air. You don’t know…” he trailed off and shook his head.

She studied the darkening of his face, and she knew why he stopped. He continued after a moment silence. “We had to make a cooking contest to give him something to do, to think about, to distract him from- This job, not only because of Florence, is much better than that. He _is_ better. She does make him smile more, and if anything, that’s enough. Not to mention that his concentration is directed onto the job. Every little thing helps. You don’t know the complete picture, and I can’t tell you, but trust me-”

“I do know, Nate,” she said quietly. “I know everything. Parker and Hardison tried to listen to the two of you when you had that talk, and you stopped them – but I put a bug in your pocket while leaving.” She lightly tapped her forearm, and she saw in his eyes that he remembered her touch at the door. His lips tightened. “It was the right call. I don’t care what you think about it. I needed to know everything that happened… to understand.”

“So, do you?” His voice showed a bleak amusement.

She looked at the two heads, now close, watching something on the laptop with intense concentration, one dark, one blond, almost touching.

“I do.” She smiled, hiding a twitch of worry. The almonds, forgotten, were dry more than an hour ago.

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***

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Sophie thought she would have to remind him about the almonds, but when they finished the episode they had been watching, and solved all the action scene disputes, Eliot went to them.

“The rest of my group is jealous of the Boston part,” he said to Nate. “They want to know what we are preparing, and why, and how they can help. They want in. The problem is, they can’t spend too much money, they can only give us their time.”

“Good, the secrecy thing worked.” Nate glanced at the hacker. “Hardison, see how much money every group needs and prepare transactions. Eliot, tell them to make lists and position themselves on the map. Choose the one who will lead the action in each big city, but tell them to wait. We’ll go first, and set the challenge – their action will be seen as a massive reply to that.”

“Massive reply to what?” Florence asked out of nowhere. Sophie pursed her lips in amusement – she literally sneaked up on them, to catch them planning.

“To our action,” Nate gently said.

Florence murmured something, and sat at the table with them. “You’ll need a name for it,” she said. “Something catchy, easy to remember, and will look good with a hash tag. If you tell me what you’re doing, I can make a name.”

“Thank you, we’ll keep that in mind.”

Whatever she said next, they didn’t hear it, because Eliot turned on Nate’s coffee grinder, and an awful wailing noise filled the room.

Orion sprinted across the room and dove into the duffel bags, with a terrified hiss.

They all sat in silence, with the same frown – the grinder was obviously a model from the late fifties, and probably a chainsaw in a past life. Only Parker had a grin on her face when she came in, drown out by the noise; she sat on a stool and leaned on the counter, observing.

Nate tried to concentrate on his work again, with a strange patient smile on his bland face, and Sophie couldn’t stop a smile. All in all, he was doing great, much better than she expected when this siege on his apartment started. But, when Hardison felt neglected and left alone, and joined them at the table, and Florence took the other stool beside Parker to watch the mysterious kitchen doings, it was obvious that his concentration was ruined for good. He closed his programs with a tortured sigh.

“The Sea of Red!” he yelled to Florence.

“Not strong enough!” she shook her head. “The Crimson Sea is better.”

“Can’t use it, there was a Crimson Sea game,” Hardison jumped in. “But The Sea of Crimson will do. #SeaOfCrimson sounds great.” He typed something in his tablet. “Check your Twitter accounts, Florence. I bought thirty thousand new followers to every one of them.”

“You did what?!”

“Fifty bucks for each. I could hack it myself, but I’m in a hurry, have a ton of work to do, and it was easier to buy the package. I will- Eliot, do you really have to-” The grinder went into a faster gear, the noise rose. Hardison grimaced, his headache was clearly returning. “And I’m also, since the boycott started, deleting Likes on the official C4 Facebook page – their followers are dissipating.”

The grinder stopped, and they all took a deep, relieved breath.

“You can do that to their Facebook page?” Eliot asked. “Can you kill it?”

“Look, man, you seriously have to work on your – yes, I can kill it, but what’s the point? This way it shows exactly what we want it to show them. Try to-”

“Can you find out who the guy who takes care of their Facebook page is? I want to have a word with him. He’s been ignoring us, deleting our comments, even the most polite and logical ones, and every one of his articles and pictures ridicules M7.”

Hardison just glared at him instead of answering.

“We won’t kill anything that we can use,” Nate tiredly repeated the same thing he told him about Nielsen. “Calm down, Eliot.”

The grinder started up again.

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***

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Sophie was pretty sure that Nate hadn’t noticed anything unusual going on, until he said no to Hardison’s question about going out. He said, actually, that he had to check one more thing, but Hardison immediately caught ‘something’, and stopped mentioning leaving. The hacker started to glance over his laptop at the kitchen, but the three of them at the table couldn’t see anything important. The girls were blocking their sight.

Sophie could see Eliot, just not what he was doing. She still felt his silence in his posture and every move, though he talked with Florence and Parker.

Parker’s giggle drew her attention. “Green and pink? What’s wrong with you, Sparky? You’re strange today.” Well, even Parker noticed ‘something’, and that said a lot.

Sophie gave up and took the third stool by the counter, to see what was going on.

There was not a single almond in sight. Sophie checked the trash can; empty except for used powdered sugar packages, and dark brown almond husks.  The kitchen looked clean, the counters were empty.  The only new thing were several lumps of colored dough. He was adding purple - from one of the bottles she brought - into the last lump.

Parker poked the green lump with her finger. Eliot slapped her hand away.

“What did you do? Where are the almonds?” Sophie asked.

Instead of answering, he made a little ball from the purple dough, and rolled it to her. It never made it, Parker intercepted it, and in a second it was in her mouth.

“In the dough. ’t’s marzipan.” She chewed it, grinning. “Make me a green one.”

Eliot turned around to fetch a knife, and two hands reached for the dough – this time he slapped both Florence’s and Parker’s hands equally with the rag he held over his shoulder. “Wait, I’ll give you each a piece to play with. I have to cut it first.”

“I want one without color,” Parker stated. “Can you make a pig out of the pink one?”

“And I want a small ball of each color,” Florence quickly finished.

Sophie held the smile. If he wanted to keep them occupied, he did a good job with this. Even Hardison turned his chair so he could see what they were doing.

She watched Eliot as he cut the pieces for the girls, and finished mixing the color into the last of the dough. He cut a thin line from every color with quick, precise moves, put them together and rolled them into one – in just two seconds he had a rainbow. He gave it to her with a quick, absent smile. His eyes had been avoiding hers since she moved to sit closer.

“I thought you buy this thing in brick-like packages,” she said, tasting it carefully.

“This is just almonds and sugar. No additives, emulsifiers, cocoa butter, soy… an original recipe. You got only twenty percent almonds when you buy it in the store, everything else is artificial crap,” he said, busy with an empty bottle. He used it to roll out small parts of the dough. She wanted to step closer to see better, but instead she took a step back, giving him space. The kitchen was big enough, and all the three of them were on the outer side of the counter, and yet it felt like they were cornering him.

No, there wasn’t anything relaxed in his movements, and his smile was tense, no matter how hard he tried to hide it. Sophie drew her chair to the column at the end of the counter, and stopped watching him, lowering her eyes to see what the girls were doing.

Parker was making a small head, and Florence tried to connect several small parts of different color. She gave up pretty quickly, leaving on the counter some sort of excrescence, a bulge with splotches of color. She stared at it unhappily.

Parker, with a triumphant grin, put her marzipan head on the top of it, squashing both pieces in the process.

“Is that… a frog?” Hardison asked, fascinated. “A tropical, multicolored, strangely shaped frog?”

Florence choked. “It’s Rubik’s cube!”

“Oh, a _cube_!” he quickly nodded. “Yep, now I see it – definitely a cube.”

Eliot finished rolling out the pink, the orange and the yellow pieces, and cut them into round shapes with a glass. It seemed they were less than two millimeters thin, and Sophie had no idea how he would peel them off the counter surface, though lots of powdered sugar was underneath it.

Parker took both hers and Florence’s piece, put them together, and made yet another head, this time rainbow-colored and bigger, with elephant ears.

“This is better than those little noodle heads that I put into your soup,” she stated, working on the nose. Florence handed her a fork to make eyes, but Parker stabbed the head onto the fork and turned it to Eliot. “Do you have a box handy?” she asked with an evil grin, and Sophie held a breath. She dearly hoped Parker wasn’t going into the ‘cutting off head’ speech again. Now definitely wasn’t a good time.

Eliot stopped with the glass in his hand, looking at Parker. Sophie couldn’t tell what emotion flashed in his eyes, they were unreadable even for her. The wailing of mental alarms, a sound that had been following her for some time, became louder.

“I didn’t cut off Barclay’s head, Parker,” he said softly. “I did, however, kill him. But he was in one piece when I left.”

Nobody breathed for a few seconds. Sophie quickly glanced at Florence; her face was frozen, her hand stopped in the middle of a move.

Parker was eyeing Eliot, but Hardison scrambled on his feet, coming closer in one step. “Can I have some of that?” he quickly said. “Give me a yellow ball.”

Eliot cut off a small yellow piece, rolled it between his palms, and handed it to Hardison.

“I’m pretty sure the Irish did it,” Eliot continued calmly, as if he was explaining the amount of sugar added to the cake, and Hardison gave up. “I called them and told them where they could find him. They were still trying to put the blame on the Mexicans, and beheading is a Mexican cartel trademark. Even if I wanted to do that, it’s not _that_ easy to cut off someone’s head, Parker. I only had a scalpel… it would be messy.”

Sophie slowed her breathing.  The last time she tried to talk to him about That Night, in the bathroom when she helped him with the tweezers, she thought it would be almost impossible – even for her – to make him talk. Well, it was still impossible to her – but _his_ decision was something completely different.

She didn’t like this, his silent mode, his decision, this tension that spread all over, and her unease became worry. She looked at his hand that was clutching the knife. The trembling was starting to spread. He made no attempt to hide it.

When Parker said nothing, chewing thoughtfully, Sophie thought they might get past this moment, if someone said something that would divert the conversation. Before she could come up with anything, Eliot spoke again, this time turning to Florence.

“You asked me yesterday about the triple morphine overdose. Do you still want to know who drugged me?”

Her face was pale, though she tried to look casual. Sophie felt sorry for her; this was a cruel twist in atmosphere, from relaxed joking to _this_. And she knew that even though Eliot might not have planned this, he was surely using it now to show her the reality. Like he was doing this entire time.

Florence contemplated a few responses. “Okay,” she finally said.

The knife clattered on the counter when he put it aside. “I did it myself,” he said, slowly pulling the first orange layer to separate it from the surface. He couldn’t control the move, it tore apart almost immediately. He stopped talking, stared at the ruined piece, then tried again, continuing, “I couldn’t function on the regular hospital dose, it only erased the pain when I was laying down. And I had to leave.  The pain was paralyzing – couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move my arm, couldn’t walk.”

“Why the arm?” Florence asked. “You weren’t shot in the-”

He slowly raised his right hand, but stopped the move before he outstretched it completely. “The chest muscles are connected to the shoulder. Every move of the arm and shoulder stretches the stitches, even now. On the third day after the shooting, it was… almost impossible to move even my fingers. Every move pulled every nerve up to my chest.” He lowered the hand and rested it on the counter for a second. The trembling was now much stronger, but his voice still held the same calmness. “I tried a few dosages before I found one that could completely erase the pain, without killing me in the process. The side effects were terrible, but I kept them under control. Most of the time.”

“You were drugged when you killed that man?” Florence asked wearily.

The second piece of orange dough was ruined, too. He couldn’t hold it. Sophie bit her lip – the urge to do something, to help him, was so strong that she almost moved, barely restraining herself at the last moment. It would be a terrible mistake.

“Almost clean. The last dose was wearing off,” he raised his eyes to look at Florence. “No mitigating circumstances. I knew what I was doing.”

Except that man held a gun on him, and he was barely alive at that moment, and he killed him to save them all… Sophie took a deep breath, but right at the moment she opened her mouth to speak, Nate rubbed his chin, lightly. It was his first move since this started, and she glanced at him. _Don’t_. _Interrupt. Him_. The message was clear.

“Why did you kill him?” Thank God, Florence asked the right question. She avoided looking at his shaking hands, but couldn’t look in his eyes either, and her gaze darted all around.

“I had to,” he said, and paused while putting aside one intact piece, working on the second. This time he took up the knife again; when he rested his wrist on the counter, he managed to steady the hand enough to peel up the dough. “If I didn’t, he would take me to Villacorta. They would draw everything from me. I couldn’t let that happen. I had to come to Villacorta under my conditions.” He put the knife away after two more pieces were put aside, and leaned on the counter with both hands, taking a break. His teeth were gritted for a moment, while he looked down, at the colorful mess in front of him. The shaking spread up to his shoulders, and Sophie knew that he could control _that_ , if he wanted. But he did nothing to stop it.

Florence didn’t chirp something about justified murder, or something equally meaningless or reassuring, Sophie noticed, watching her. Her eyes were still downcast, she was looking at the head on the fork that Parker put aside.

She finally raised her eyes to him. “One day, I’ll tell you something about changeable and unchangeable people,” she said quietly. “And you won’t like it.”

He smiled, almost surprised. “Why I wouldn’t like it?”

She pressed the head and thinned it into a rainbow circle, and put one piece into her mouth, just shrugging. Her silence instead of an answer was the answer itself.

Sophie let that silence spread for three more seconds, then said, “Why are you thinning those pieces?”

That forced him to look at her, but he immediately looked down. “The marzipan is used mainly for decorations,” he said, “and I had a few decorations on my mind lately. A few things I wanted to try. Believe it or not, Gary Barclay _is_ connected to it, in some strange way. He was the one step that led to the talk with Villacorta.  To the terrace of the Estrella, and everything that happened there.” He took one fragile sheet, barely avoiding smashing it.

Sophie watched it, fascinated, with a painful knot in her throat.

Dear God, there wasn’t a worse time for this talk than now – they were all around, watching him, his hands were betraying him and he had to work with them, in front of their eyes, and talk about…. Oh. She slowly took one deep, deep breath, not believing the thought that ran through her mind.

But then she looked directly into his eyes, intent and sharp with concentration though his smile was still light, and remembered the tweezers, him synchronizing the shaking frequency with mere concentration – and she knew, for sure, that this wasn’t a coincidence.

This was choreographed, they had been attracted and lured to gather around the kitchen. One could be sure of victory only if the battle was won under impossible conditions – every other option still held a possibility of doubt. And he never took the easy way, for anything.

Her heart ached.

He started to connect the orange pieces, one thin layer after another. “This reminded me of a slushie that was served in Estrella,” he said, and she saw then what he was making. An orange rose, forming between the trembling fingers, slowly taking shape.

They all watched the flower now, in deep silence.

“I don’t have mint leaves, unfortunately,” he smiled. “And the decorations were made of fruit, not marzipan… but this will do.” He finished the rose with a small green part at the bottom, and put it on the counter in front of Florence. She took it without a word. Carefully.

Oh, it would do, Sophie thought, staring into the second rose, the yellow one, its every petal curved and bent into perfect shape, slowly and with immense concentration. He was forming the rose in full blossom, bright and vivid.

That one was for Parker. The thief was also silenced – at least she didn’t put it in her mouth at once.

The third one took longer to make and his concentration was visibly stronger.

He put a pink ball as the center, and surrounded it with white petals – it needed careful pressing to mix the colors as if they naturally went from pink to white. She forgot to breathe during that process, her eyes glued to his hands, and the shaking that lessened with every move.

She wondered if he knew the meaning of the colors he chose for every one of them.

The last three petals were made so slowly and meticulously, his hands moved almost in slow motion while bending them outwards to blossom, and the slower his fingers moved, the less visible the shaking was. She didn’t know if he was breathing at all; his every thought, every piece of strength directed into his eyes. Never before had she seen such utter concentration in a living being.

He handed her a white rose, her favorite, with a slow twist of his hand that stopped in front of her eyes. And stayed there, steady, unmoving, as if set in stone. The shaking was stopped.

She blinked away the tears, and smiled.

.


	34. Chapter 34

 

Chapter 34

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***

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“Good day, Janet Lin.” Nate’s voice was all business. “Remember that guy who had made your producer send you and your crew into the Wakefield building that was under a hazmat evacuation, and who promised you a Pulitzer Prize?”

“Nice to hear from you again.” The female voice from the speakerphone had a smile in it. “I didn’t win a Pulitzer that time – but your call, and that story, made me a producer. What can I do for you?”

“I need your Channel Six and all the media coverage that you can give me.”

“What’s in it for me? Except returning the favor?”

“I’ll send you a few numbers, a few questions, and a few names – send the crew and then decide if it's a story that needs media coverage, or not. Your call.”

“Fair enough.”

When Nate ended the call, Florence wondered what the story behind that was.

He looked at her. “It was over a year ago,” he said collecting his papers from the table, getting ready to go. “Parker got involved with a Steranko, and dirty executives of a food company. Nothing special.”

Of course, nothing special – trivial stories surely did promote field reporters to producers overnight. She said nothing. Nate went upstairs to fetch his jacket.

Hardison was packing the bags with electronic equipment while Parker made a mess in the kitchen, but Sophie stayed with her at the table.

“Are you okay, darling?” the grifter asked, glancing at Eliot who was in bed again, working with other members of the group, arranging who knew what. She knew what that question really was: how did she handle casual talk about killing a man, during the dessert preparation.

She stopped fidgeting with the orange marzipan rose in her hands.

He wasn’t pretending. He did kill that man. Maybe more. He unleashed hell That Night, she knew that. And yet, he spent almost one hour entertaining her because he saw she was scared and in a bad mood, making her laugh. Making her better. Of course, when he realized she was too relaxed, he remembered that wasn’t good, so he attacked with the monster speech. Fuck, she wasn’t a toy, she wasn’t a tool in his own confused game - that idiot had no idea what he wanted, his inconsistencies were driving her nuts. It was as if he was normal one hour, then remembered he shouldn’t act normal, and quickly reminded her about the gruesome things he had done, after that returning to normal again. And he expected her to just nod and follow that madness?

Sophie’s question only reminded her that she almost went to lock herself in the bathroom and smash random things into dust. “No,” she said shortly. “Not okay.”

“Shocked or scared?”

She looked up at her. “Murderous.”

“Oh.” Well, if she wanted her attention, now she had it. What wasn’t such a good thing.

The grifter watched her, then smiled. “We don’t have enough time now, but if you want to talk about it when we return, I’m here.”

Before she could say anything, Hardison came to them with a remote.

“This time, you’re in charge, I’m not giving him more buttons to press,” he said. “This is for pulling surveillance cameras onto the big screens, these are the channels you might want to check, your episodes are in this menu, and under any circumstances, don’t-”

“-press the red button. Yes, I know.” What the hell was that red button, anyway? She eyed the thing, but Hardison tilted his head.

“Nuh-uh, don’t, I see you thinking. It’s a reset button, and I spent way too much time on programming that thing to allow someone to mess it up.”

If that was a reset button, he would’ve said that the first time, when Eliot asked about it before they went into the C4 building, she thought, but she let it be, just nodding.

“Are you sure you don’t need me with you? I can help with the fans. Maybe if they saw me, they would-”

Hardison shook his head. “If you go, he has to go, too. We can’t risk you being caught outside without protection. And, it’s better for him to rest as much as he can. His attempts to fool us ain’t working – he just _looks_ as if he can do anything.”

“You wanna test that theory?” Eliot’s voice surprised them both, and Florence quickly checked; they were by dining table, speaking at a volume that proved to be silent, voices not reaching the bed.

But then Hardison pulled out his earbud, cursing. “Really? That’s just rude.”

“Since when are the usual working procedures rude?” came the gruff reply. “Since you forgot you put the earbud in? Come here, and bring me your laptop with the surveillance cameras.”

“No need for that. Check your desktop – that small icon surrounded by four, neon red, pulsing arrows pointing at it should be a clue, just like the giant sticker above it that says 'IF YOU CLICK THIS, YOU CAN ENTER THE SURVEILLANCE PROGRAM AND WATCH THE CAMERAS'.”

A low growl was the only answer, but the grin on Hardison’s face showed Florence there wasn’t any danger. She glanced at the bed – Eliot was busy typing again, his head was lowered.

Hardison was watching that too. “Fascinating,” he said shaking his head.

Yes, fascinating indeed.

Florence just smiled, and went to make herself busy with something.

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***

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Her anger boiled without ups and downs, nice and steady, evenly. She wasn’t sure, though, if she was more mad at him, or at herself. At him, for thinking she was that stupid, and at herself, for allowing him to think she was…well, stupid. Which she wasn’t. Most of the time.

She was sick and tired of the ‘ _Let’s scare Florence with the monster’_ game. Oh, it worked in the beginning, in fact it worked even now, because she _was_ scared. She would probably be terrified by now if he didn’t make one mistake. He let her get too close, allowing her to see all of him, not just that scary part he was so stubbornly trying to push into her face every five fucking seconds.

She waited until Nate, Sophie, and Hardison went out, but Parker went to peek into Eliot’s computer, with a plate full of colored balls she had made in the meantime.

Florence played with the remote, waiting for them to stop talking quietly, already knowing it would soon become a half quarrel. Since she'd come with them, she hadn’t seen any normal talk between the two of them, it always ended with growling and Parker’s laugh. Except when she was waking him up – she seemed to be serious and careful then.

She scanned through the channels, searching for Channel Six, but Eliot’s words burned in her mind. He didn’t have to answer Parker’s objection about the head in the box, he did it intentionally, because of her. _Let’s show her, again, what I’m capable of_. Let’s explain to her, thoroughly, how I drugged myself. Let's show a naïve action writer what the real life is, and what the real killers do.

 _Back off, I’m a killer_.

And she _was_ able to see through his motives. He repeatedly tried to tell her about the monster – yet all she saw was so much pain simmering under the surface. And _that_ was pissing her off – that attempt to show her only bad, to show her the incomplete picture, drawn only with red and black – when she saw all his colors. _What the hell was that man doing to himself_?!

Parker finally went back in the kitchen and Florence jumped to her feet and went to him. He looked almost surprised to see her coming, as if he thought she would avoid being near a man who confessed to murder in front of her. How stupid _he_ could be?

Her smile was thin. “Good day, Dr. Jekyll. How’s Mr. Hyde today?” she said before she lost her courage. She sat on the bed this time, for the first time. Not in her chair.

He watched her for a moment, and she saw his eyes becoming colder and closed, which annoyed her considerably. “I want to talk to you,” she said. “Now, if you don’t mind.”

“I’m busy. I have five different conversations going on, in a few different time zones, and it won’t-”

“Humor me.”

A brief silence fell. He left the mouse and leaned back into the pillows, and waited.

And she realized she had no idea what to _tell_ him, except to pour out all the frustration and all the anger that his behavior caused. _How do you tell someone he is full of crap, but politely and reasonably_? She was a writer, good with words, she should be able to find a way, to wrap it into something more...

“You’re full of crap,” she said.

His eyebrows went up, and a quick, surprised smile flashed over his face. “Well, thank you. I am.”

Yes, that was it. _That smile_. That damn smile – and he wasn’t aware of it – was the perfect example of all her thoughts. The first, the spontaneous reaction to a statement which would make many people angry or hurt in a second. Hell, two-thirds of her coworkers would become pissed off in a second if she had told them that, in this tone. He smiled without thinking. The monster he tried to paint wouldn’t.

How dare he think she would just accept everything bad he had told her, without thinking, without questioning it? There had to be some way to tell him how insulting his behavior really was. She had told him she would tell him about changeable and unchangeable people but she changed her mind – not now, that could wait until she calmed down.

He insulted her intelligence, and her knowledge of people, making her… what? She couldn’t find the right word to describe it. But if he thought she knew nothing about people, about him, he was very, very wrong. She might not know everything that happened That Night, and everything he did, but she knew _him_. She got to know him in the past few days. She saw his reactions, his worry, his intelligence, his care for these people – and yes, his care for her, too. His annoying warnings were just one kind of it.

He did everything possible, and a few impossible things, to protect them all. She tried to count how many times he saved her life up to now. The bomb he found could count as one, too. Not to mention the garage. He didn’t have to do it – for rights, he shouldn’t have been _able_ to do it – and yet he behaved as if it was the most normal thing in the world. Sure, all monsters did good for the sake of good.

How she could tell him to stop diminishing all the good and showing her only bad?

“This conversation is becoming too intense,” he said slowly and she blinked at the dead pan delivery, becoming aware that the silence spread, and spread. And all she did was sit there and glare at him. “Can we slow down a bit?”

Damn him, for making her smile inside, when she wanted to yell.

Opening her mouth to speak, at last, she was stopped when she saw the plate on the bed. One half of it had blue and green lumps of marzipan. The other was full of blue and green little frogs, perfectly carved, with tiny yellow eyes, and red tongues sticking out. Beside them lay a beautiful blue-green rose.

He followed her glance, and said gruffly, “Frogs are for Hardison.” He put the plate on the table, crossed his arms, and looked at her. He surely didn’t like to be caught in the act of kindness.

Only then did she realize that her anger was futile. He snarled at the hacker for hours; if she  tried to point out only this gesture, it would just bounce back from him, just like every single example she could come up with would.

He would just reject everything she said, she saw it in his eyes, closed and cautious, alert.

“I’m afraid we’ll have to finish this some other time,” he said after one more silence, glancing at the surveillance cameras on his laptop. “No, nothing dangerous. Just Betsy. She’s coming up.”

Now she knew for whom the blue-green rose was waiting.

This was great – all the things she needed to tell him, and she only managed to blurt out that he was full of crap. Epic confrontation indeed.

Parker let Betsy in, and there was no time for anything else.

“Where’s Hardison?” Betsy asked instead of a ‘good day’, and Florence got up from the bed.

“Working. He’s fine,” Eliot said.

“I’m fine, too,” Parker quickly added.

“And who, exactly, decided that Hardison is fine?”

Eliot sighed and put the laptop on the table. “Nobody decided. But I would find a way to keep him here if he wasn’t well. He worked for hours, no sign of a headache. His focusing is okay, too, both on distant and close objects, I checked. His typing speed would be much slower if he still had traces of double vision. He reacted only to noise, but not much more than any of them did – even the highest pitch of the grinder made him just frown. No staggering while getting up, even when jumping to his feet. His balance is good… or I should say, his balance is as bad as usual.”

“Are you so thorough when _your_ symptoms are in question?” Betsy’s smile wasn’t creepy this time, but Florence retreated from her path all the same, just in case.

“I’ll leave you to do your medical stuff,” she waved her hand in a general direction. She was sure her voice had no traces of anger or fuming in it, and yet Betsy’s eyes shot through her for a second, with disturbing precision. She quickly smiled – that made Betsy’s eyes narrow even more - and casually walked away.

She was looking forward to slamming the upstairs bathroom door with all the strength she possessed.

.

.

.

***

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“Why did I have to go through the bar and climb the back stairs?” Betsy’s question stirred him from staring after Florence. _What the hell just happened_? He looked at Betsy, remembering he sent her a message.

“Just in case. If someone is monitoring the building, you’ll be just a bar visitor, not connected to this apartment. They can’t track them all.” He saw all the questions she was about to ask. “Just a few more days,” he added. “We’re working on finishing that. As fast as we can.”

She sighed. “You’re full of crap.”

If one more person told him that, in that annoyed voice, he would really start to question himself. What was wrong with those people? He looked again at the stairs where Florence disappeared. He needed just one quick glance to recognize the retreat in her steps. And it might mean trouble.

Fortunately, Betsy’s check of his bandages didn’t last more than a few minutes. She was silent and concentrated, and he had time to think. The last time Florence was this upset – in fact, that time she looked much calmer than now – she ran away and went to Knudsen.

She wasn’t Parker, she couldn’t climb down two stories, but whatever, his unease grew rapidly. If she took her phone…

Maybe he was the one who made a mistake, this time. He counted on that she would be upset by his talk about killing Barclay – he wanted to upset her – but not to push her into something reckless. What if his attempt to show her that she shouldn’t have been so relaxed with him, and them, just backfired?

“Will you stop shifting?” Betsy poked him with the scissors she used to cut off the last piece of the bandage. “I tried to tie this three times.”

“Sorry,” he murmured, but then realized he didn’t move at all. She wasn’t talking about his moves, she sensed his absence. “What?” he looked up into her eyes. She was studying him, and he quickly changed his mind. “Forget I asked. Here, take this,” he pushed the rose into her hands, and grabbed his shirt.

“I’ll tell you only two words,” she said, looking at the rose. “’Stress levels’.”

He stopped twitching. “I’m fine,” he said slowly. Though, he wouldn’t be fine if he had to deal with a writer who suddenly realized she was too close to a killer and who was attempting escape, directly into the hands of-

“Excuse me.” He got up - slowly, absolutely relaxed, and aware he didn’t fool her - and went upstairs, feeling her eyes on his back. It took all his concentration to climb the stairs with light, easy steps – they were fucking narrow and steep – and he had to rest a second when he reached the upper floor, the corridor and bathroom, to calm his too rapid breathing and hammering heartbeat.

“What are you doing?” he asked the closed bathroom door. After two seconds of silence he was ready to knock the door down.

“I’m in the _bathroom_.” A muffled murmur stopped his move.

“Yeah, I can see that, but what are you _doing_?”

Silence, and a sigh. “I’m coming out.”

“You don’t have to, if you don’t want to.” Why did he have a feeling that this conversation was heading toward a disaster? “If you’re doing the usual bathroom things, I mean. If you’re not, well, we should discuss it. You ran away. Why?”

“I didn’t- you people really have to stick your noses into everything, right? Tell me, what set of tells did I do now?”

“You tried to look bored, you walked slower than you should, and you glanced all around except in the direction you were heading to.”

“What? I did exactly what Parker told me to do to not look suspicious!” Florence opened the door. Judging by her glare, her annoyance wasn’t calmed down. “Okay, what is your set of things I should do when running away?”

“Ah, you _were_ running away?”

“Hypothetically,” she hissed.

“Whatever. Don’t think about your posture, steps, direction, surroundings, think about your great aunt, or something like that. The body follows your thoughts. People get signals from your mind, via your body, and if they receive that message, they won’t think you’re running away, they won’t feel it.”

“That’s idiotic.” She passed him in the corridor and went down. “I wasn’t running away,” she added. “Or calling Knudsen for the next suicide meeting, if you were wondering.”

“I knew that.” He went after her. “Wait.”

She stopped on the third stair and looked up.

“I wasn’t…” He stopped. He couldn’t tell her that he didn’t mean to scare her, nor that he didn’t kill Barclay. “You wanted to tell me something, before Betsy came. What?”

For a moment he really thought he broke some geek rule again, because geek frown number nine flashed through her eyes again, with all thirty-seven sentences whirling inside… but the moment passed. She shook her head.

“Some better time,” she said softly, and went down.

He knew she used the exact words he had told her when he hadn’t been able to talk about being drugged, in the Challenger. There was a message in that.

He had no idea what it was.

.

.

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***

.

In the two hours after Betsy had left, Florence said exactly six words, but Eliot knew that wasn’t because she was scared or cautious. That woman was pissed off because of something. He tried a few neutral questions about the group and fans and she replied, but anything else he tried, he got several ‘whatever’, one snarled ‘as you wish’, and two cold ‘fine’s.

He was guilty of something, and he knew it had nothing to do with Barclay’s head, whatever happened to it.

Parker wasn’t in the best mood either; Betsy said she was surprisingly well and proclaimed her back in action, if that action was only walking. The thief raged because she missed the chance to go with the rest of the team by less than an hour. His joking at her sulking wasn’t accepted well, she hissed at him.

He was locked up with two nervous women. George was still sulking at him. Only Orion looked at him without some sort of accusation or anger. He even came and thumped his head into his hand holding the mouse – the result was a terribly wrong smiley that went into a comment, which he had to edit after that. He made a mental note to google cat body language; this could be the preparation for an attack, as far as he knew.

It seemed that Parker and Florence interacted completely normal with each other. They were sitting on the sofa, waiting for the news on Channel Six, leaving him behind their backs in the bed, to work. The room was dark, with the blinds completely shut, and only dots of light came through the slits, casting a golden net on the two blond heads.

One more day of this complete shut down, and he would have to take George for a walk, to see a little sun. That was questionable, too, because sun was nowhere to be seen, rain had been constant for days. That fact improved his mood a little – the rest of the team wasn’t enjoying the weather, they were probably wet and cold.

Whatever, he would change places with them at any time.

The third season was finished, and it was time to start with the fourth, but he knew better than to suggest watching it now. They still had enough time for that.

He spent the past hour listening to Nate’s conversations with fans, while they prepared for action, but just to see if there was something suspicious around them. It seemed there were no mobsters on site.

Nate and Hardison had left Sophie with the fans, and went to the sand excavation camp, and that doubled his unease. He had two places he ought to be at, at the same time. It didn’t matter that the danger for Sophie was minimal, nor that the two of them wouldn’t do anything risky without him… he listened them all, in stereo. Catching anything suspicious or dangerous via earbud was almost futile, and the fact they were out of his reach if anything happened drove him nuts.

He couldn’t concentrate on the two separate conversations and on the Facebook comments, so he closed that window, leaving only the cameras and comm feeds on. Parker’s and Florence’s lines were red, they weren’t listening to them now.

He checked everything, then closed his eyes for a moment, trying to relax his stiff back and unused muscles. Yet, he knew he was tensed because of worry; alert, with all his senses searching for danger, and not able to react if he spotted any.

The shit was starting. Nate pulled the first moves, and if he knew anything, he knew that things were going to speed up from now on. The two days that Nate set for them to get better ended today.

He waited; he had nothing to do. Everything was set with the rest of the fans, for now, he only had to give them the sign when the time came.

And he was nervous –  a strange feeling.

 _Stress levels, right_.

He would gladly work on his stress levels if only-

“Channel Six, Eliot,” Parker called to him, and he opened his eyes right to the statue in front of the C4 building. Parker pulled the TV up on all six screens, but he got up and went to them, to not miss any detail. He took the laptop with him.

The statue was dressed up in a huge crimson shirt, with #SaveM7, and #SeaOfCrimson on its front side. The water in the pool was bright red, too.

Many people gathered already, drawn by the unusual doings, and all his instincts screamed on the inside. There was no way he could see anything suspicious in that mob, not through a TV camera. The main theme of Magnificent Seven playing loudly covered the most of the sounds.

When he sat on the sofa, Parker and Florence took opposite chairs, with identical huffs. He payed no attention, his eyes were glued to the screens. He scanned the crowd searching for familiar Red or Green guard faces, without results. For now.

“Sophie, stay in the middle of your group, okay? Where are you?”

“In the middle of the group, Eliot.” Her smile-colored voice came out of nowhere. “Though I’m going into the background now, a reporter is coming toward us.”

The camera followed her words, and they could all see a small group of women beside a huge truck – Hardison really did a good job with organizing this – and the people crowded all around them. They were giving away red shirts, and the sea was spreading. There wasn’t just a few of them, now many people wore crimson shirts with white letters.

Three guys at the back of the truck were pumping up red heart-shaped balloons.

“Winds will take all seven thousand balloons all across the country,” a young blonde reporter was saying. “Is it true, that one balloon has a priceless diamond in it?”

“It is a gift from the Magnificent Seven fans,” a redheaded woman – his pitchfork admin – nodded in response, with a broad smile. “It’s a yellow, two carat diamond, worth more than twenty thousand dollars. I suggest you start catching them as soon as possible-”

He looked at Parker. The thief had a grin on her face.

“What?” she said. “I gave it to Sophie – sounded like a good idea.”

Florence turned to her, aghast. “You mean, there’s really a diamond in a balloon?”

“I’m sorry I didn’t have any red diamonds handy,” Parker shrugged. “They are the rarest; a red diamond of that size would go up to two hundred thousand dollars. We would have every US citizen searching, and prime time on every network. But yellow will do.”

Florence choked. “You gave – you had a diamond, just like that, in your pocket?”

“Of course. You don’t?”

“Shhhh,” he silenced them. He had to listen to Nate and Hardison as well, though they were silent, and the only sounds they made were Hardison’s low grumbling, spluttering of mud, and sound of thorny branches catching their clothes. He remembered the thick woods around the sand excavating camp well – he just hoped they would stay invisible, and far away. Hardison’s grumbling stopped, both of them were listening to everything via his and Sophie’s earbud.

“- and this action will show the executives of C4 how huge our fan base is,” the pitchfork admin continued her speech. “This is a challenge to all our members, we want the response. I call every fan of Magnificent Seven to stand up and help us save our show. We were robbed, C4 have no reason to cancel it. The numbers are on our side, M7 earns the same money as their other shows. We want them to tell us why they canceled it, and what murky business was behind their decision!”

“This cancellation did make a great response in all media, indeed,” the reporter said into the camera. “In the days after the decision, all the major stations and newspapers had some sort of reaction, overview or comment, and the show got an enormous promotion. We shall ask Mr. Brewer, the CEO of C4, is that enough for him to reconsider his decision, knowing that the show just gained many thousands of new viewers.”

The camera rolled from the fans; Eliot caught a glimpse of Sophie behind other women, dressed like them in red, with a red bandana. Even if there was someone from Dvorak Security who was in their main building with Knudsen when Inspector Lohman came for the meeting, they wouldn’t recognize her.

“Is there any bears in woods around Boston?” Hardison’s whisper in his earbud was covered by the sound of splashing, the cracking of a large branch, and something heavy falling. “I’m okay, I’m okay, go on, nothing to see here!” the hacker quickly continued. Nate’s response, along with a tired sigh, was interrupted by a loud cheering – the camera in front of the C4 building caught the first few hundred balloons being released into the cloudy sky, and the crowd was applauding.

He put the laptop on the coffee table and played with comm feed controls. He lowered  Sophie’s input to better hear Hardison and Nate, and checked the cameras as well.

The next scene was the reporter standing in front of the main entrance, pushing her microphone into the face of Director Jules Brewer who watched the red clouds around his building with barely hidden annoyance.

“Mr. Brewer, there wasn’t any positive media response about your decision – it seems that every article agreed that Magnificent Seven was a show more than worth keeping. Can you tell us why you canceled it?”

Florence quietly laughed even before Brewer said a word. “I guess Nate was right,” she said, her eyes bright again, without that stern shadow. “Brewer will have to defend his decision – and he can’t. He _is_ in the defensive position now.”

“I’m not free to discuss Board of Directors decisions,” he said.

“Why, if that was a simple business decision, and not something else?” The reporter smelled the blood in the water. “These people are asking for a short explanation. Do you have one?”

“No comment.”

“Magnificent Seven is in the race for the People Voice Awards. You said you will make an official statement about the destiny of the show during the ceremony. Is there any chance you will change your decision, and if not, why not?”

“No comment.”

“If your decision isn’t official yet, how come the news spread? Are you sure all of your employees agree with you in this matter? The rest of the country seems not to, as we clearly see.”

Brewer pushed away the microphone, his face more crimson than the sea of shirts that surrounded him. “I said, no comment.” He turned around and returned into the building. Two guards stood at the door, stopping any attempt to follow.

The reporter looked in the camera again, with a wolfish smile. “We shall continue to inform you about all the action surrounding this strange cancellation – but for now, it looks like the fans were right. There is something unusual about all this. In the meantime, we shall wait to see what response they’ll get from other fans across the country. This is Laura Flynn-Mullins, for Channel Six. Stay tuned.”

.

.

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***

.

“Not bad,” he said when commercials replaced the reporter. He turned the screens off, yet the main theme of the series still echoed in his earbud. Sophie was standing somewhere near the speakers.

Parker beamed, going into the kitchen – he hoped she wouldn’t come up with the idea of mixing cereal with marzipan. Florence was quickly making some notes on papers.

He had to speak with Boss Lady, to see where the rest of their groups were, in what stage of the plan. “Sophie, how long you plan to stay there?”

“We’re nearly finished, we’ll pick her up when we’re done,” Nate said. “Move your people – try to calculate their responses through the time zones. We can have this entire day full of reports from all over the country, one per hour, when fans respond with their balloons and actions. When we get back, Hardison will boost the viewership and put everything on You tube.”

“Nope, Hardison is doing it already,” the hacker jumped in. “Just make sure I’m walking in the right direction, I have no time to look foroooopsss-” another crash came through the earbud, but this time it seemed that bushes softened his fall.

He sighed, grabbed the laptop and got up.

He made just three steps towards the bed when another noise mixed with the main Magnificent Seven theme coming through his earbud. The screens were still turned off, he checked when he turned around.

He took the earbud out, listening.

Loud rap music, from somewhere on the street.

It sounded like a ghetto blaster in a parked car, with open doors. Right under their windows. He glanced at the surveillance cameras, but that spot wasn’t covered.

Normal people would go to the window, pull the blinds up, and yell at the driver to turn it off.

He turned around, quickly scanning the room. Parker was in the kitchen, too far away, and Florence-

Florence turned to him, alerted by his sudden move – and a red dot flickered over her face through the slit in the blinds, disappearing in a second. “Parker, get down!!” he yelled, slamming the sofa with his foot, turning it over, throwing the laptop on the chair. He grabbed Florence and pulled her down. Parker was on the floor in instant.

He only had time to turn the sofa's back toward the two windows above McRory’s entrance, when the blinds and glass exploded with a burst of machine gun fire.

But no sound of gunshots. In the third second he knew they were screwed.

Daylight rushed in along with the bullets. The shooter tore the blinds completely.

He grabbed Florence tighter and kept her down. The thumping of the bullets mixed with her scream and shattered glass.

It took only ten seconds before the first bullet found the weak spot in the sofa and whistled one inch from his shoulder.

Fuck, they were pinned down, unable to move under the rapid gunfire, protected only by the thin wood in the sofa – and open to all the ricochets that buzzed everywhere.

He wrapped his arms around her, covered her head. And counted.

They were in a kill box.

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	35. Chapter 35

 

Chapter 35

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***

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Eliot recognized the Type 81 Light machine gun. One hundred twenty bullets in a minute, sustained fire.

The shooter was on the roof or in a building across the street, maybe the same place where Moreau’s man from shot the year before. That one failed. This one would likely succeed. He had a silencer, the gun sounded no louder than a small drill. The loud music from the car below them covered the shattering of blinds and glass. No one would see anything. Nor hear anything. No police, no help. He could shoot for hours.

Over one hundred bullets per minute. The shooter didn’t need hours to kill them.

He felt the bullets thrusting into the sofa – his back was against it – and he heard the screeching of the split wood in it. He kept Florence low on the floor on his left side, shielding her from the glass and splinters of the destroyed wooden walls. His heart was louder than the blasts around them.

He searched everything around him, trying to – “Parker, stay down!” he caught her attempt to move – she was in the worst position, on the kitchen floor, in the kitchen that was completely open to the windows, the counter upright was the only barrier between her and certain death. Yet only she had a small chance to escape. He waited, and waited, counting seconds, counting bullets – _breathe slower_ \- until sudden silence fell over them.

 “Don’t move, Parker!” he warned her. Florence raised her head – her eyes were glazed with panic.

_One second of silence. Two seconds. Three seco_ – the bullets started again, whistling all around them.

Good. Seventy five bullets in a round magazine. One second to remove the empty one, one second to put the full one in the gun, and the third to take aim. Parker would make it. She was quick, even now – he had to trust it. He _needed_ to trust it.

“Parker, you have one second to jump over the counter towards main door. One second to reach and open it, and _maybe_ one second to dive into the corridor and run. Can you do that?”

“I’m not leav-” she cried, but he couldn’t listen.

He erased all the force from his voice. “You have to. Get ready, darlin’.” Two heartbeats per second, the magazine was getting empty. Feathers from the torn pillows flew directly into his face, almost blinding him. Thinking clearly in the pounding all around them was almost impossible, yet he clung to the numbers, to the seconds that flew by faster and faster. If he missed just one, _he_ would kill her, not the shooter. _Again_. “You have to go,” his voice quavered for a moment. “He’ll stop shooting again. In fifteen seconds, tops. Get ready to jump. Go for help.”

Florence looked bewildered; she looked at the kitchen, then again at him, and her flickering fear shot through him. She realized he was sending Parker directly into the path of the bullets.

He closed his eyes to not see it. Counting.

In the last ten seconds he opened his eyes and stopped breathing, watching Parker who crouched, tensed like a spring. Their eyes met - hers burning with anger, terrified. He smiled. _You can do it, darlin’_.

“Now!” he yelled when he heard – no, when he sensed – the first millisecond of pause. She sprang up.

One second; her arms grabbed the counter, and her body flew in a perfect flip over it.

Two seconds; she landed, her weaker leg gave out, she stumbled – his heart exploded – but she leaped forward using the motion of her jump.

The third second – a burst followed her, going from left to right, at chest height – but she dived down when her hand reached the knob, and slid under the bullets.

She rolled into the corridor, disappearing from his sight.

He managed to breathe again.

The angry wasps wailed toward them again – Florence curled up on the floor, covering her ears, but the shooter lowered his aim, too. Bullets ricocheted too close now.

_Priorities, Spencer, priorities_. Lowering the number of victims, the only chance for that had already been used. The two of them were too far away from the door, pinned in the middle of the room. Second, to find any means to contact help. His earbud, when he dug it out of his  pocket, was dead. His laptop with the comm feeds, thrown on the chair, sparked and smoked, hit by numerous bullets. His phone was on his bed, way out of reach.

“Florence, your phone?”

No reply, she shook her head. She straightened herself up a little, glancing wildly around her, at the chaos that was crashing around them. Fuck, she was seconds from freaking out, and if she jumped up and tried to run for a phone or-

A small, scared _meow_ came from somewhere behind them and she twitched, whirling around. He flashed his hand, caught her at the last moment before her head rose over the sofa. It wasn’t the time to think about appropriate moves – he pulled her down and close, wrapped her tight with his arms, immobilizing her as much as protecting her. His back was against the sofa, he was one more barrier between her and the windows.

“Stop fighting and just breathe!” There wasn’t any way to say it calmly; his voice came out as raspy, restrained whisper. “I need you to think!”

“To think?!” she cried. “We have to get out! It’s-”

He tightened his arms around her. “Calm down! Count the bullets, Flo.”

“What?!”

“Count the bullets.”

Or the feathers that covered them, or the shards of the screens that shattered all around, anything, just to keep her mind out of a panic whirlpool. He counted the seconds – one more pause while the shooter exchanged magazines passed. He needed at least two of them before any move.

He knew what to do – the only problem was that it was impossible.

“Remember what I told ya about refusing to lose?  The only way to win?” he went on, this time louder, when she didn’t respond. _Maybe she was really counting_.  “We’re gonna practice that now, okay? Just that.”

“I can’t-I won’t – stop that, that won’t get us out of here, we have to do som-” One shot tore the end of the armrest, showering more shards on them and she screamed; one shard cut her sleeve, leaving a long gash. He spit a curse and held her closer. She stopped fighting, curled herself into a small, sobbing ball in his arms.

It was a good thing she didn’t notice the bullet coming through the sofa mere inches from his elbow; it was just a matter of time before others followed, finding weak spots in the wood. He felt every hit – the bullets gnawed the wood behind his back. If shooter stopped spraying them from all around, trying to kill them with ricochets, and just directed all of them into the sofa, they were done.

And he had to fucking _wait_. This was a fight or flight situation, and he couldn’t do either, and his heart was hammering, and fear and rage raced up and down his spine, and – he shook his head to get rid of the feathers on his face and hair. But mostly to put his mind in some sort of order. There weren’t gunshot sounds, and no gunpowder smell, and for now no flashbacks hit him, but he couldn’t know how long it would last. The last thing they needed now was a panic attack, disorientation, or even a blackout. He tried to breathe slower. Useless.

Stress levels, right. If he blinked harder, his head would explode.

It was a fucking huge room, and they were in the middle of it. Ten meters to the main door. Hopeless. At least seven meters in the opposite direction, behind their backs, to the only relatively safe spot, under the windows from where the bullets came. If they reached that wall, the bullets would go over their heads.

Impossible, in only two and a half seconds. And he had to do it. It was the only way to live through this.

Well, he had told her before that hopeless and impossible were the same shit, that both didn’t exist. It was all in the head, in the circumstances and conditions.

One more pause. The bullets after this silence went all into the same spot, into the solid wall, many of them returning to them. He felt one go through his hair, a white heat that whipped too close.

He tried to reach the laptop on the chair that still stood up, though torn and sliced with bullets; it was smoking, but if there was any chance – _nope_. Three bullets followed his move, finding his arm when he reached out of sofa’s cover. The laptop flew away, hit again. He pulled the hand back, cursing, eyes full of plastic and wooden pieces that burst into his face.

Florence wasn’t Parker, able to react in a second, faster than a shot arrow. The shaking woman in shock couldn’t react in a millisecond as the thief did– she would stand up, and the third second would end with her first step.

Seven meters. Seven fucking meters between life and death. If he was alone, he could make it.  If he dragged her with him, they would need more than five seconds – both dead. If he carried her, even worse – much slower. There was only one way.

He took one deep, deep breath, and prepared himself.

“Florence.” He opened his arms, pushing her away to arm's length, forcing her to uncurl and straighten up a little; her face was frozen, but thank god, her eyes were bright, not blurred with panic and shock. “We’ll do something. Do you trust me?”

She wiped the tears off her face, took one shaky breath, and nodded. And smiled – a small, scared-to-death-but-acting-brave smile. The smile that showed a dimple on her cheek but brought even more tears to her eyes.

It took his breath away.

_No. There weren’t impossible things_.

“W-what must I do?” she whispered, he barely heard her over the whistling and thundering of the bullets. He counted bullets and seconds, knowing very well that his count was just approximate.

He pushed himself up from the sofa, in a crouch, “Just don’t fight. Nothing else.”

“G-good. I was afraid you’d ask for another hurrica-”

Her word was cut off with a scream when he sprang up on his feet when silence fell – in the first damn millisecond – kicking the sofa away. He grabbed her around her waist and pulled her up, turning around.

_One second_.

“Don’t fight!” He gathered all the strength he had, in one violent move – he had to use both arms for this, the right one even more than the left – and he threw her over the room, flying the first few meters, then sliding and rolling on the wooden floor.

_Two seconds_.

The tearing agony in his chest and shoulder almost knocked him down. For a moment he was sure he'd been hit with a whole burst, and sliced through the middle, but he managed to stumble in the right direction. No, no new bullets, just fucking stitches gaped open.

He had to jump after her, but he just staggered those steps, struggling to stop a fall – _third second, you idiot, you’re standing right in his line of fire, facing the window_ – and bullets whizzed again. But the shooter lowered his aim, following Florence’s sliding on the floor, trying to catch her before she reached the wall. That saved him. Instead of his chest, the bullets plowed the floor for two seconds. Enough time to force himself in the right direction, enough time to reach the wall between the shattered windows, into the rain of angry shards. The shooter was now smashing the lower parts of the glass. He dropped himself – fell – down the wall, and it felt like sinking.

He blindly reached for Florence, still bewildered and disorientated, but probably unharmed. _Probably_.

“Are you hit?” he whispered; he couldn’t breathe in, a well-known fire was melting his chest, and spots of darkness blurred his vision. She was blurry, too, and he couldn’t hear her answer.

The shooter aimed for the window frames now, catching dangerously correct angles. No time to talk. He had no idea how long he would stay conscious, and ricochets could kill her even now. Only half able to see what he was doing, he cradled her closer. His arms weren’t enough to stop bullets, but they protected her from the sharp splinters and glass that was falling on them.

The shooter would stop. His chances of killing them were very low now – he still could get lucky with ricochets, but minutes had went by and he simply couldn’t, physically, have so many magazines. He had spent nine by now. Round magazines demanded a very, very large bag.

They only had to wait a little longer. There was nothing left to do but wait.

And when he closed his eyes, everything went to hell.

He couldn’t breathe. He knew he _could_ – it was just painful, every movement slashed through him – and he knew his lungs _weren’t_ full of blood. But the pain brought back the memory of a dark corridor and endless falling, voices that screamed at him to stay awake, explosions and guns and mortars and dust and blood and- _fuck, stop it_! He forced himself to take a deep breath, biting off a scream when it pulled every raw nerve in his chest.

He was in the apartment. No corridors, no darkness. He forced himself to open his eyes, not thinking about the glass, letting the light return him to the present. The light, and the golden mess of curls on his chest.

He could feel she was crying.

_Sophie was crying, too_. Another blurred image attacked him. His first waking up, delirious, dying, and Sophie crying while she tried to smile at him – for a few seconds he was sucked up into the fever that burned through him – the black-haired and blond women melted into one for a moment, both with the same fear in their eyes, and that was much worse than any corridor. Different kind of pain… but both were dragging him down.

He closed his eyes and rested his forehead on her hair. Cold and silky. _Avocado oil and shea butter_. Sophie’s hair smelled like apples that night, and that scent had helped him to stay in the present, to not sink into delirium and dark again. This scent did the same.

He breathed, carefully, cleansing his mind of the past. Clutching at reality, at the light around them and the woman in his arms.

It would be so easy to let himself slip into unconsciousness; the dark offered rest and peace. He had no strength to open his eyes, fighting the pain and weariness that rushed in waves over him.

He just breathed, wavered on the edge of falling.

_Refusing to lose_.

And waited.

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***

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Florence wasn’t quite aware when exactly bullets stopped whipping everything around them; her thoughts were slurred like drunken snails.

For some time, the only sound in the strange silence was the chattering of her teeth. She was so stunned that even the thought that her sniper scenes would never be the same, just went through her mind, leaving no mark.

She was still sitting in the pool of glass. Eliot walked around. She clearly remembered how he had to loosen her fingers that were clutching his shirt like a claw. She didn’t know what he had told her, but his voice was soft and soothing, it went through the dull fear.

More time passed – probably just seconds, but to her, it seemed that hours went by. _So, this is shock_ , she thought, feeling only slight amusement.

He was standing in front of her now, but she raised her head only when he put Orion in her arms. “Stay here. I’ll go find Parker.”

She nodded.

Orion had a cut on his paw, and he was licking it frantically. She pulled one of the bags closer and put him onto it. She should get up and start cleaning up all this glass, before he hurt himself even more.

_No, you fool, you should call the police and Nate – not exactly in that order_.

She didn’t want to stay here all alone, she realized, but she said nothing, knowing that he had to go. She followed him with her eyes; he had a phone and a new shirt in his hand. Good, maybe he would call Nate. But he entered the bathroom and closed the door behind him.

More tears filled her eyes, without any fucking reason, and she wiped them away angrily. She was becoming a sobbing idiot, for god’s sake. Her hands shook. She moaned in frustration, pulled up her legs and rested her forehead on her knees. Glass and feathers still fell off her hair.

She wasn’t Parker – she couldn’t stay cool in something like this. She still heard bullets thundering around her, she still cried – while the thief was probably chasing the killers up and down Boston.

The thief.

After three seconds she lifted her head from her knees and looked at the bathroom door.

If she thought that Parker might do something reckless, Eliot surely knew precisely what she was capable of. He said he would go after her – and after that he went into the _bathroom_? With Parker on the street, and the killer retreating from the building he shot from? That didn’t make any sense. He had a shirt in his hands, why he would go to change before… oh fuck. He must’ve been shot.

She scrambled to her feet and hurried to the closed door.

“What are you doing?!”

“I’m in the _bathroom_.”

“Yeah, I can see that, but what are you doi-” she bit her lip and stopped. “Open the door, now. Parker taught me how to pick simple locks. Open the door or-”

“The key is in the lock, you can’t pick-”

“- or I’ll break in by force.”

“Force? What fucking _force_? You’re a miniature human, you can’t slam a cupboard door. The door opens towards you, no chance to break-”

She didn’t wait for him to finish, remembering she didn’t hear the door locking, so she just turned the knob and entered. He was standing by the cupboards, thank god.

And when he turned to her, with pissed off eyes, she almost took a step back. “The fuck is wrong with you!?” This wasn’t the usual growl; this was real anger that radiated from him.

“Are you shot?” The sound came out smaller than Orion’s meow, and that pissed her off in a second.

“Nope. Get out.” He was getting unnervingly dry, and she balanced upon turning away. She did invade his privacy, after all… but she felt something was wrong, more by reading his reaction than his posture, tense, strained energy whirling inside him.

He wore a new, dark olive shirt – and there was no chance he would lose time while Parker was on the streets, unless he _had to_.

This time, scaring her away didn’t work.

She looked at his face, drained to a gray hue she had seen only once, after the slaughterhouse, on Lucille’s floor, and she realized he barely kept himself on his feet.

His black shirt was on the sink and she reached for it - and even before her fingers touched the blood on it, she knew what happened. He’d reached with his left hand to stop her. The right hand hung motionless.

Her breath seemed to freeze in her suddenly paralyzed throat. When he threw the gun in the parking garage, he couldn’t move from the pain that sliced him. Now he'd thrown _her_.  Betsy’s entire speech about the dangers of tearing the stitches apart went through her mind, and she twirled around towards the door. “I’m calling Betsy,” her voice fell to a whisper.

He kicked the door with his foot and it slammed in front of her, barely missing her shoulder in passing. She slowly turned around.

Something very dark flickered in the depths of his eyes, dark and raw and feral – for a moment she was a threat, she could clearly see that. _A threat to what_?

“No. No Betsy. I’ll deal with this.” His face was thunderously dark, yet she realized there wasn’t even a trace of fear in her. She studied him, feeling angry tears pouring out again, without control. This day fell hard on her – every shit that happened accumulated in her heart, aching.

She wanted to scream, but controlled it. Barely. “Is it possible for you to direct Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hide to work together for a while, instead of at cross–purposes?” Surprisingly, her voice was level, until she went to wipe her tears, and stopped, looking at the blood on her hand. Her stomach ached. “Or at least,” she whispered, “hold back the one who is trying to get you killed. Because you’ll end up dead, not because of me, or mobsters, but because you’re a fucking idiot who doesn’t know when it’s time to stop.”

His eyes calmed. He regarded her thoughtfully, with a kind of attentive intensity, and it felt more alarming than his rage before. More predatory.

“Time to stop? Do you know _why_ I told you that you shouldn’t know anything about strength?” His voice was low, and raspy, and tired. “Because the real strength is needed only when you, and your life, is coming apart. When there’s nothing left to do but be strong or die.” He paused, choosing his words. “You see,” he went on politely, “those who died… they stopped, Florence. Only thing you can’t do, when everything’s going to hell, is stop.”

He reached to the sink with his left hand, again, but not to take the shirt, but to lean on it. It seemed that merely standing was too much.

She stared at him. “So that’s it, you’ll just continue? When you don’t have to? When there’s enough time to call Betsy to see what you have done and decide what to do, when there’s enough time for hospital treatment if needed? Why?!” Her voice became a half cry, half yell, all her built up anger pouring out. “What stupid idea of honor, or strength or courage or whatever macho shit is driving you?!”

“What time do ya think we have?” he hissed. “We might not live through the next attack, and it _will_ come. Knudsen doesn’t play on our schedule – his time is different than ours. I can’t lose any of it. He is speeding up – so must I, or we’ll die.”

“And how would calling Betsy to take care of that wound probably slow you down? You make no sense! I wish I could speak idiot so I could tell how stupid you are, in your own language!”

“We’re not talking about things that could slow _me_ down,” he growled now. “It’s important that nothing slows _Nate_ down. Calling Betsy would do that.”

She was stopped cold by his expression, the leaden greyness of pain and growing anger, and it took a few seconds before she got it. “You mean not telling him- you’ll let him continue with his plans, not knowing that you’re – you can’t mean-” she took a breath and choked on it. _Calm down_. “That’s the most absurd and stupid and reckless and- no, no way, I’ll tell him. He-”

“Florence-”

“No, you can’t go on like nothing happened, Betsy told you everything, told you how dangerous-” she stopped when he moved – for a moment she thought he would collapse, he swayed, but he put both of his hands on her shoulders and shook her. “Wha-?!” she gasped, staring at his face wearily. The lines in it were cut deeper; it must’ve been fucking painful.

His eyes locked on hers, burning with pain, fierce. “There’s no time for recovering and resting, we have to continue at this speed.” She opened her mouth to speak, but he shook his head. “No, listen. The shit has started, Nate is finally in the right mode, and I won’t risk being the reason for slowing down. Not now, it’s too dangerous. His plans have to continue as they are – I can do it. I have to do it, to finish this. When you’re a target, delaying means death.”

“You'll go down in two minutes! What can you do?! Betsy-”

“Betsy would do the same as I will do – stitch that shit up again! That’s all! Stop panicking, it only hurts, it’s only skin and some muscles, nothing more than a cut – there are layers of stitches, and the deeper ones are not torn.”

Yeah, right, only a cut – her shoulders were a solid spot that helped him keep balance, she felt the waves of trembles that went through him. He was controlling that pain with all his strength, and yet she could see how weary and drained he became in a matter of minutes. Angry tears blurred her eyes again and she blinked – the need to hit him with all her force was unbearable.

“They can’t know,” he whispered now, as if he felt he had to calm her down. “If Nate starts to adjust his actions by what I can, or can’t do, it would mess up everything. I don’t want him even to _think_ about adjusting anything. Efficiency, Florence – that’s what we need now. Knudsen has to go down as soon as possible, or he’ll kill us.” He stopped, just watching her. “Help me.”

The words blurted out before she could stop. “You want me to help you kill yourself?! To lie to them and cover this up?” her voice rose uncontrollably. “That’s the stupidest- you can’t ask me that, how dare you- you’re so, so, so-”

“Florence, stop.”

“Stop what?! Somebody has to tell you how stupid, how reckless, how-”

“Stop.” He moved his hands and cupped her face, and she froze all the words that boiled inside her. Dear God, he was too close – all that accumulated energy engulfing her, his hands on her face warm and _real_.

She thrust her hands in her pockets, not trusting them to not reach for him – she wanted to kiss him so much in that moment, and her guilt, and rage and fear exploded.

“Listen to me,” he whispered, eyes locked on hers. “I can function for two days. Maybe three. I’ve set myself to finish this, and I’ll do it. But I won’t have strength for more. Two days, and we’re out of danger, and I can recover as much as all of you want. This is the best for everybody. Including me. Not stupid, not reckless. I know what I’m doing.”

It was hard not to respond to his intensity. What if he really knew what was the best for him? She faltered, and hated herself for it.

“Trust me. Again.”

And she _did_ trust him. Maybe more than anybody else here. He never lied to her, she realized just then, almost surprised.

 “I can’t lie to them,” she whispered too. “Everybody knows when I lie. Everybody knows what I _think_.”

“Just don’t tell them – that’s all I ask. I will lie if there’s a need for that, but…” he trailed off, his gaze softening. She felt his fingers move; he wiped a tear with his thumb. The touch was so gentle that it brought more tears to her eyes.

Her breath caught in a sob. “I’m not _really_ crying,” she pointed out and tried to smile, without any success.

He said nothing.

Just then she realized he didn’t finish his sentence. And he wasn’t breathing. His eyes filled with strange uncertainty, flickered over her face.

_Oh. It wasn’t just her_.

The realization shook her. He was one second from leaning in and kissing her.

She should step back, she should say something, but she couldn’t move, fixed on his face and eyes and lips and-

“Are you going to kiss?” A voice from the door saved her – she tore her eyes from his, with effort, and took a quick step back. He did the same, she noticed, equally stressed. He was so taken aback it took him several seconds to regain his speech. “Parker,” he uttered at last, a mixture of relief and annoyance. “What. You don’t – we weren’t-”

The thief tilted her head at them. “You should,” she smiled. _Oh Jesus_. Florence took one more step back. Parker shrugged and went on. “Oh, by the way, I was this close to catching him, he got to his car just seconds before I arrived. I’m still slow, and I tried to sneak up on him. Mistake. But I recognized him – the guy that held a gun on you in the slaughterhouse.”

Eliot rubbed his forehead wearily, and sat on the bathtub. “Goon C,” he whispered.

If it was possible to be paler, he did it exceptionally well.

Florence took two steps back until the cupboards stopped her, not daring to look at him, nor Parker. She felt… she had no idea what she felt; anger, fear, embarrassment? Her stomach churned, and fucking tears kept rolling down her face, though she wasn’t _really_ crying. They just poured out on their own. She hugged herself, feeling cold to the bone.

“Sit. Parker, give her a robe.” Eliot hadn't finished his sentence yet when a robe flew at her face; she wrapped herself up and sat on the toilet, numb-brained. Parker patted her on her back, but she didn’t dare look at her yet.

Eliot grabbed the phone he carried and dialed a number.

“Nate? You’re on your way? Good. Can you stop somewhere and buy an artificial light, full spectrum lamp? What? No, it’s for the cat, Orion _desperately_ needs a small tanning bed – of course it’s for George! Stop smirking.” It was fascinating how his voice changed back into the normal, annoyed growl. Florence blinked; the tense, pained whisper from her mind was erased as if it never happened. “Oh, by the way, tell Hardison to buy new laptops, as many as he can carry – he’ll enjoy that, I’m sure. He also has to call his maintenance service for the building. No, nothing serious, just a little accident.” All three of them looked through the bathroom door at the total devastation. Now, Florence looked at Parker, exchanging a stare. Even the thief looked slightly worried, chewing on her lip. “You want me to define an accident? Well…” he paused, sighing. Florence could almost hear Nate’s patient silence. “It wasn’t just _one_ accident. It was more, like, a thousand little flying accidents, hitting things and, well, ricocheting- okay, stop, we're all okay – just… the fridge is okay, too. Nothing happened to the fridge. Surprisingly, all the accidents missed it, have no idea how. Lucky fridge. Is that Hardison growling? Tell him to buy new screens, we’ll need them immediately. In short, we need everything, including wood paneling for the walls. Except the fridge.” He listened for several seconds, and when he spoke again, his voice changed again, to calm and serious. “Nate. Knudsen raised the stakes. The next attack won’t miss. We have to hurry.” His eyes met hers while he listened. “Yes, I can,” he said both to her and Nate. “Tonight.”

She slowly stood up and turned around, passing by Parker.

The glass crunched under her feet when she entered the living room. Suppressed shock-y shudders were still going through her and her steps were reluctant.

What the hell had she done? She observed her bloody fingers almost absently. _When did someone’s blood become something that you just wipe away and continue_? Her life, her world – it _was_ tearing apart. And she had no strength for that. He was right.

She was caught up with them in this strange bubble of time and space, separated from everything, everybody; outer life felt blurred.

After the PVA ceremony, everything would be finished – they’d either be dead, or they’d succeed. The bubble would burst.

_But it wasn’t just her_.

She wiped her hands with the chair stuffing that hung like bowels from a dead animal. She couldn’t wipe out his face and his eyes, his hands on her face. Nor the warmth she felt inside. _It wasn’t just her_. She dreaded the stupid smile she felt emerging.

The first thing after the ceremony would be booking a flight to New Zealand, to Jethro.

Running away was the only option, before she ruined everything she had, before she admitted to herself how deep she cared already.

Something, somewhere deep inside her, cried. _Reall_ y cried.

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	36. Chapter 36

**Warning – lousy chapter ahead :/**

**I had to hurry with this one, and I moved all important doings into the next, because I didn’t want to mess anything up due the lack of time and concentration. In this chapter practically nothing happens, and it should, Facebook things are waiting :D It has, though, a few important explanations.**

**Another thing – the reason I made this in a hurry. :D Now do exactly what I say ( except Facebook People, you don’t have to, you’ve seen it already):**

**Step one: open new tab or window**

**Step two: Go on You Tube and in “search” type: The Occam’s Razor Job, or full length title: Leverage Movie Trailer 2014 The Occam’s Razor Job.**

**Step three: guess what you have to do with it :/**

**Step four: return here and just then read the chapter. You may tell me if you liked the movie – optional.**

**That thing consumed me for days, I haven’t touched the chapter since the last Friday – and when I finally came back, sucked up in TORJ again, I had no idea where the hell I am, and who is that strange new woman in my apartment :/**

**This rambling is going to be longer than the chapter – but I’m still high on adrenaline and I can’t stop. No wonder – 77 episodes, 24/7 – I barely slept at all.**

**If you can, and want, share the video around.**

**I promise, the next chapter will be normal :P If my luck holds, maybe I will follow :D**

**_PS:  The video was made as a birthday present for a dear, dear friend, Nina Dvorak ( yep, the REAL head of the Dvorak Security :D )_ **

**.**

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Chapter 36

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***

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It took forty five minutes in the bathroom – locked, with the key turned twice – to tend to the wound, clean it, stitch it again and wrap it up. After the first five minutes he was wishing he was dead already. That shit wasn’t just a small entry hole, Dr. Sciortino had to dig for the bullet in the first operation, making a solid cut. He had no means to check the state of the inner stitches, except the feeling that those _might_ be okay. However, when it came to stitches, every surgeon had his own handwriting, and there wasn’t any way he could copy the exact pattern. Betsy would see the difference, and go berserk.

One shit at the time. He had worse problems than Betsy’s wrath.

Wrapping the bandages, which had to go across the chest, over the shoulder and around his back, reminded him of dressing up in the hospital when buttons were impenetrable barriers, and the tie became an octopus trying to strangle him. He ran out of curses before the first ten minutes passed.

Good thing he remembered to wash his hair before he started it, to make an excuse for being in the bathroom in the first place. There was no way he could do it after this torture.

And he had to hurry, to finish it before Nate and the rest of the team arrived. Avoiding any suspicion was the key. Hurrying only made things worse; it took three tries for every bandage to wrap.

The pain was so absurdly strong that he became almost dumb. There was a certain level to  which a human body could endure pain, just one small step before losing consciousness and shutting all systems down, and he had learned how to find it and keep himself right on the edge.

When he finally finished he was a trembling wreck. Unable to stand, think, breathe, to do anything except sit on the floor to avoid falling, and staring at the locked door.

_Stress levels, right_. He couldn’t decide if he should laugh, or cry, so he did neither.

How the fuck was he supposed to get up now?

Avoiding any suspicion would be hard indeed if they had to break in the bathroom to get him out.

Maybe it was time for another list: How to screw every damn thing that could be screwed.

He fucked up the better part of his recovery; the ‘deterioration of progress’ speech played in his head in Betsy’s voice. With this shit, he probably returned to the ‘the first steps’ phase – and that one was a joy. He had managed to solve the shaking of his hands, just to become a trembling heap on the floor, unable to stand up. In fact, his hands shook much less than the rest of his body, every muscle shivering from exhaustion.

Florence and Parker were cleansing the apartment, according to the sounds he heard. Still no sign of the others returning. Good. He could even make it on time.

If he moved.

Getting up was a three stages process, with pauses; he counted to ten, calming the thumping in his chest which just increased the pain. Three more countings, in three different languages, and he was standing. Another five minutes to carefully clean the mess he left behind, and fill the trash can with the shirt and bandages. If the girls gathered enough garbage, this trashcan could go with it unnoticed.

He wasn’t yet able to go out of the bathroom, but his unease was growing stronger. He did tell them what to do, and what not to do, before he locked himself in. Parker would be careful, but he wasn’t sure about Florence. Her behavior was inconsistent even in the good days, and now, suffering from a mild shell shock, she could do anything stupid. Like walking in front of shattered windows. The shooter might not return – but he would, if he was him.

He hurried with everything, not bothering to look at the mirror; he knew what he would see.  The few steps he had to make to reach the door gritted his teeth in a permanent lock; breathing, walking, shaking, moving the arm, he simply couldn’t control all of that at the same time, and dizziness struck hard.

_It’ll get better_. He had a few hours to recover, and the pain would lessen. He just needed to get to the bed, and rest his arm on something, to ease the pulling from involuntary movement. For now, putting it in his pocket would stop any movement. 

When he entered the living room, he knew he shouldn’t have bothered with worry; they put heavy blankets over the broken windows, keeping the daylight out. Good. Darkness would help him hide everything. And they did a marvelous job – the floor was clear from rubbish, all destroyed things, books, pieces of shelves and screens were gathered in one big pile in the middle.

“There’s nothing we can do with the sofa and chairs, but we covered them with blankets from Nate’s room,” Florence said, coming from the kitchen with another broken stool. She put it on the pile, just then turning to him. She looked calmer – the somewhat haunted look in her eyes was almost gone. Almost. Good thing she was so stressed in the bathroom, and didn’t notice how much it cost him not to kiss her; that would be the most stupid thing he could do.

He was worried about Parker’s remark, yet Florence had probably learned to dismiss everything Parker said. It was good that the pain had kept him occupied until now – that was much more productive than thinking about the ‘kissing the client’ issue. He had to stop with that – just like that – stop. _Now_. He could do it. He could erase nasty, complicated shit from his mind, this shouldn’t be a prob-

“Now is the time when you say: yes, good, or no, don’t do that,” she continued, watching him. “Unless you changed your mind about Betsy?”

“Didn’t.” Damn, his voice was unused and raspy; too much of holding breath and silent cursing. “You okay? Your arm?”

“I put a plaster on it,” she glanced at her arm, then looked at him again, with brows narrowed in confusion. “Parker poked me.”

Damn. He turned around to look at the thief who was busy with… he blinked and looked better, not believing his eyes.

“Fuck, she’s…”

“No, everything’s fine, I poked her back. At her leg.”

That stopped him mid step. _Unbelievable_. How come he never thought of that, all those years? But then he looked at Parker again. She was using his kitchen knife, sharpened to almost molecular level, to dig out the bullets from the holes in the walls. “Parker, what the hell you’re doing? Those knives ain’t for digging, stop it!”

“Almost finished,” she sang back, not a slight worry in her voice. “Nate called, they’ll be here in twenty minutes. Go to bed.”

He eyed her suspiciously; he wasn’t sure how much she saw – he never could read her completely.

She sent him a grin. “You skipped the cleansing with washing your hair for almost an hour,” she pointed to his still wet hair with the knife – he couldn’t see abrasions on the blade, but he could _feel_ them. “That surely exhausted you, and you have to rest. Am I right?”

He gave up on reading _this_ , turned around and went to the bed.

George’s vase was broken. At least two bullets hit it, going through the soil and roots. And two branches were broken too, hanging sadly from the tree.

He put him behind the bed, promised him he would be avenged, and finally, _finally_ , crawled into the bed.

He didn’t dare close his eyes.

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***

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He must have passed out, because when he opened his eyes – which he didn’t close at all – Nate was standing by the bed, watching him, and directing the full spectrum light into his eyes.

“Turn it _off_.” The fucking train ran through his head when the light hit him. Nate directed the light to the floor, to George, and blessed half darkness fell again.

Behind Nate’s back, Hardison and Parker were putting the new screens on the wall. Florence and Sophie were cooing over the cat.

Nate didn’t look pissed off because of the apartment, he looked _silent_ , a much more dangerous thing. That meant his brain was plotting and plotting, and he really didn’t want to hear what letter plan he was pondering upon right now.

_Nate, just go away_. He needed more time to get together, dammit, he wasn’t able to talk coherently yet. His chest was pounding with every heartbeat, sending sharp waves of pain directly into his brain. And he had to hide every trace of it before those attentive eyes. “Windows?” he had to ask when Nate sat in Florence’s chair, able to talk or not.

“Hardison called his people, they’ll be here in an hour. I don’t want them to mess around here too long, so they’ll just put metal panels over the holes. For now. All repairs will wait until Saturday night and the PVA Ceremony.”

He just watched him. He couldn’t mean they were _staying_ here. If the shooter would have started the attack earlier, they would have all been here. And Betsy. And they would all be dead. Why were they here at all, why had Nate decided to stay at the place he knew Knudsen knew about? He should’ve told them they were moving, if not before, then after the last night’s dancing in the dark, with dead cameras. Nate’s sense of risk was always twisted, though… yet there was something more in that.

“What?” Nate asked when silence spread.

“When you wave a bait in front of someone’s nose, you have to consider that he might take it,” he said. Slowly. Very slowly, very controlled. “Should I start, again, with the cost-benefit shit, Nate?”

Nate leaned back in the chair, stretching his legs. “Nah, no need to,” he shot one smile at him. “I have the hitter to deal with the ‘taking the bait’ part. After all, you did warn us to keep the blinds down, remember?”

Well, _some_ hitters were able not to take the bait. He disregarded the ‘having the hitter’ remark. “The hitter’s job would be done if he made you leave this place _before_ the sniper attack.”

“The five of Knudsen’s men we’ve left in the woods last night maybe haven’t even returned to him yet. The hitter’s job was done.” Nate continued. “The shooter missed – Parker’s report was insufficient, and pixie said just a few random words – but that was enough to know how it went. Again, the hitter’s job was done, they would be dead now if they had been alone.” He put his elbows on the armrests and entangled his fingers. “Btw, is washing the hair a thing that the hitters usually do after sniper attacks, or was it just a moment of brilliant inspiration?” he asked as an afterthought, evenly.

Fuck, _that_ voice. He should decide if he would abandon the cost-benefit speech – which was useless anyway – or concentrate on hiding the mess he was in, and he should choose quickly.

“Not only did I wash my hair,” he said slowly, “but I washed it for almost an hour, locked in the bathroom. The two of them were… slightly upset. And with upset, I mean talking without a pause.”

“Yep, I would probably do the same,” Nate nodded. And smiled.

Only in that moment did he become aware of the mistake he made. He did take the fucking bait, after all – his choice was wrong. The normal Eliot should’ve ignored the hair washing completely, continuing with the security topic – this way he clearly showed him which was more important and dangerous to him. _Fuck_. He rubbed his forehead, buying time, but the damage was done. Nate noticed something unusual, and he wouldn’t stop. Playing mind games with Nate was exhausting even in the best times and now he wasn’t in the shape to even start. “And I’m not as well as you’re trying to say,” he added, trying to connect two topics again. “I _had_ to retreat from them, to get it together. Keep that in mind when deciding about the next moves. Which, by the way, are…? We should leave this place. They’ll come back. I made the mistake, trusting the cameras, sensors and all surveillance. We should-”

“That wasn’t the mistake, that was necessity,” Nate stopped him. His eyes, however, were steady on him, studying every move. He breathed deeper, cursing silently. “The last two days three of you were recovering. I couldn’t risk us being caught outside, vulnerable, three of you almost down, to be caught on the wrong foot – I did calculate all pros and cons. I chose to defend a fortress, rather than to retreat into the wild – and we defended it for now. This proved to be better.”

“For now. Raising the stakes means exactly that, Nate. The next attack will kill us, having the hitter or not.”

“Nope, it won’t. And we’re not leaving, we’re staying here.” Nate turned in the chair, checking Hardison and Parker. “Are you done?” He asked the hacker.

“Connected the first screen. Calm down, we’ve just arrived,” Hardison said, typing on his tablet as he spoke. “You, people, have no idea how lucky you are to have me – no, seriously, you don’t. Not even the slightest… Do you know how long it would take to boot up all new laptops if I bought them, instead of actually having them ready, locked and loaded, with all programs needed to use them right away? Have you ever, _ever_ , installed something on your own? Have you-“ he stopped talking, stopped typing, and looked at them. “Why did you ask?”

“Put it on this screen, while you work on the others.”

Hardison started talking again, but he did immediately what he was asked and the blond reporter from Channel Six ran over his words. Damn… she was standing right in front of _their_ building.

“ _Police reports are scarce, but four bodies were confirmed, two male, two female. One victim was found in the corridor, the other three in the apartment. Thorough investigation is in process, but police can’t yet confirm the identity of the victims. According to witnesses, more than thousand bullets were fired. Crime scene investigators promise they’ll process every bullet, track every trajectory, and though it would occupy them for two days and two nights – what we will pay with our tax money – they will find the perpetrators of this gruesome crime. This is Laura Flynn-Mullins, for Channel Six_.”

He stared at the screen, stupefied. “This… Nate, this is a fucking _huge_ mistake!”

“You think so?”

“What? You can’t just make a false report and raise all flags…That won’t go, you just called Boston Police to knock on our door to see why-“

“Nope, no attracting attention, calm down. I arranged everything with Bonnano while we were driving home. He is State Police. He sent an official note to Boston Police about an undercover operation going on, that needed a false report. We’re clear.”

“Knudsen will be calmed for a while, but he will send people to check – we’re not clear! They’ll see no crime investigators, no police-

“Go to the window and see for yourself.”

Nate could just tell him what was going on – he knew why he sent him to walk. This time he didn’t fall into the trap, he stood up in one swift, graceful move, with ease. It was good that he turned his back to all of them while he walked – straight and steady – to the window. It took almost ten seconds, though, for his vision to clear when he peered through the improvised heavy curtains. He studied four police cars parked on the street; buying time, unable to talk, think, do anything. Watching the fifth police car parking in the street _hurt_. As seconds went by, he managed to ease the claws stuck between his ribs enough to breathe again. If he put his hand in the pocket, Nate would process that along with the other signs he must’ve noticed already.

“What’s this?” he asked when he regained his voice.

“McRory’s bar sent a note through old channels – every police officer in Boston can drink free for two days. We don’t need more time.”

He turned around to look at him. It wasn’t possible that Nate was finding all excuses for staying here, no matter how dangerous it was, because he was tied to the bed, because he still _needed_ it? It wasn’t as if he wasn’t taken for a walk every day at least once. Almost literally.

Maybe, a little. That thing was surely taken into consideration while he was deciding, but probably not as a big part. He simply couldn’t let Nate slow anything down, to notice anything – he would be able to stay up those two days, but after that he knew how hard he would crush down.

“How long was I…“ _Unconscious_.  “… sleeping?”

“We arrived half an hour ago.”

He quickly calculated the time – # _TheSeaOfCrimson_ actions should start very soon. He couldn’t, exactly, tell people in the group that he was away because somebody shot at him.  Because of the time zones, it would spread far into the night, the night that would put him on a very interesting test. He would, most likely, have to have a fucking tablet with him, to finish everything, while working on the field. Good god, he was becoming Hardison, a typing-walking-posting idiot. “When are we going out?”

“It depends. Maybe around midnight.”

“Good,” he left the window, taking care to look normal, and went to the kitchen, to the fridge. He could feel Nate’s eyes following him. Sophie, at the dining table, greeted him with a smile. Florence avoided his eyes, seemingly occupied with Orion. The cat, spread over the table, had the same expression that Nate had.

He took an ice bag from the freezer and put it on his right elbow. They all knew they were hiding and jumping to avoid bullets, and slamming the elbow somewhere wouldn’t look suspicious. With holding the bag on it, he could keep the arm immobilized and avoid any new pulling. It would buy him enough time.

Florence twitched and stopped the rolling of her eyes in the last second.

Sophie looked at her.

Fuck, he should really choose his allies better; Florence’s posture screamed about guilt, and the unhappy smile was carved into her face permanently.

He retreated from Sophie to Nate, feeling like a ping pong ball between two rackets.

As expected, Nate’s eyes slammed at the bag at the instant he reached the bed.

“Now, everything else can wait, Nate. I have to work, and take care of George.”

Nate stood up, glancing at George with that strange look, close to animosity. _Bastard_. He left the bag on the bed, gritted his teeth, and picked up the vase with both hands, putting it close, on the working table. He didn’t know how, precisely, he would pull out the bullets from his roots in this condition, but hell, he had to do it. _Lead poisoning, for crying out loud_.

“Unless you want to help, leave us alone, okay?” he growled, pretty satisfied with the intonation – it sounded as usual.

“Have fun,” Nate waved a hand and left.

“Disrespectful bastard,” he told George in a low voice, looking at Nate as he walked across the room, slowly. He stood a moment by the chair, watching the stuffing that hang sadly under the blanket, then proceeded to the dining table.

George looked worried.

He turned the light on him. “Wait a minute here, while I start Facebook shit.”

He used the phone until Hardison brought him the new laptop, but it didn’t matter – Legion was ready to go.

He really wished he could say the same for himself.

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***

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Florence grabbed Orion to cuddle him as soon as Sophie went to Hardison and Parker.

She watched Nate and Eliot talking, trying to forget how she stuttered before Nate. He didn’t ask much, he listened more, and that was frightening. She could only hope he would think she was scared because of the shooting.

She tried not to think about anything else.

Feeling drained to the bone, she didn’t even wish to ask him about tonight and all actions that they were preparing. If only all of this could just stop, now, disappear. This time, tears that were threatening to pour weren’t angry, just tired.

Nate had the same expressionless face when he talked with Eliot, which he had when he talked to her. It would be the best if he would guess what was going on on his own, that way she wouldn’t feel so damn guilty. And scared of everything that might happen if she kept silent. Yet, it seemed that Eliot managed to keep his composure up – and she didn’t know how – and managed to deceive him. Why not, after all? They knew each other for years, he could do it.

Though, she didn’t know how he could read Nate and his calmness. The only emotion she noticed was a light grimace when he looked at George. That was strange, too.

Well, she changed her mind watching Eliot taking George with a clearly protective move; maybe he wasn’t able to read him so thoroughly. He seemed unaware of Nate’s subtle manipulation. She was able to see the ways Nate used to push him _towards_ the plant – but she couldn’t decipher why.

She knew only that George was important, very important for Eliot, on a level that wasn’t for her to understand. It wasn’t just because he felt guilty because he almost killed him, if she understood  his explanation correctly

_They are all crazy_.

Broken men, broken plants, broken apartments… and her in the middle of that. She hunched into her shoulders. _Make this stop_.

There was something un-palpable, almost invisible in the way he interacted with George, she had noticed it before. He was definitely projecting something onto that plant. But what?

_Stop thinking about him_.

Normal people didn’t project their wounds onto other objects.

She hugged Orion and murmured soothing words, to remind herself of something that was hers outside of this lunatic bubble.

He was still scared, though he acted brave, who knew how. He curled on her lap and fell to sleep in a matter of seconds.

He must’ve felt safe with her arms around him, gently guarding him from everything. Protected.

 

***

 

 

 


	37. Chapter 37

 

Chapter 37

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***

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“Yes, of course, darling, I’m not upset. It’s just business. I’ve already told you about all the plans for other possible pilots – I’m surely not idle, I’m working on them. My days are full and occupied.”

Eliot couldn’t be sure, but Florence’s voice faltered on the last sentences. Jethro had called – well, it was about time he asked her if she was alive. That was the thing he couldn’t understand from the beginning; how the hell he could stay in New Zealand, and not come running to his wife who had almost been murdered. _Fucking idiot_. Nothing would stop _him_. Sooner or later he would return to the apartment across the corridor, and maybe, just maybe, there would be a chance to talk to him about how to treat his wife. Yet, if he didn’t know already the meaning of the word _care_ , if nothing else, no intervention could help in that matter. She deserved better than that.

He stopped an irritated sigh and continued to type messages. After one minute, feeling Sophie’s eyes on him, he realized he was slamming at the keyboard much faster and harder than before her phone rang, and he softened it again.

Florence was going to and fro, entering the bathroom and leaving it, speaking quietly, and he could catch only parts of sentences. Which was good, because if that fucking moron asked one more time about the cat and her job, and – wait a minute. Nobody could be _that_ stupid, cruel and cold – and she certainly wasn’t the kind of a woman who would stick with that kind of guy.

 _She didn’t tell him she was in danger_. That was the only explanation possible. And she lectured _him_ about reckless macho-courage-whatever-shit, right. She would rather stay alone in this, than call him to come be in danger with her. He could understand that completely – but it wasn’t any less crazy because of that.

He stopped typing. Okay, the guy wasn’t an idiot, after all. He wasn’t sure if he liked that new thought or not. Poor bastard, in fact. He would be delighted when he found out everything that had happened.

So, no need for intervention. Maybe they would even exchange polite greetings in the hall if they met. After all this ended, life would return to normal, she would live next door - with a fucking husband – and maybe even come to visit. Parker and Sophie liked her. That would be… weird.

He stared for a few seconds at his fingers hovering over the keyboard, and forced himself to type a few random letters.

“Can’t book a flight yet, I have to see what will happen at the PVA ceremony. If things change, I might have to stay a day or two longer, to deal with paperwork and everything needed. But, that’s it, two days max-” She entered the bathroom again and the rest was silenced, but this was good. He forgot she had said at the beginning of all this she was going to New Zealand to join her husband, and that she was only here because of the PVA. If he remembered correctly, she had a few months of hiatus before she returned to the US to assemble her team and start work on the new season, if there was one.

That was good. Three months would be ideal, it would give him enough time to clear this shit from his mind. He would even be able to look at her as a neighbor, or a client, whatever she was.

Damn, time had never been a problem for him before. He always had plenty of it, for everything he needed to do. But now, it seemed that everything was running past him, and he couldn’t catch up. No time for _anything_. The time for recovery, for the job, for healing, for clearing his mind, for thinking… he needed days where he had only hours. He needed months where he had only days. And he had no idea how to stop that trend – it was getting worse.

He checked the clock on the laptop - noon had just passed. Twelve hours until the night action that involved walking. Half a day to hide how bad he felt, and act like usual, when he wanted, needed, heavy drugs to dull the pain that burned steadily. 

The only thing that helped was Hardison’s people who came and boarded up the two broken windows completely, increasing the darkness in the room. The only light was the laptops and screens that Hardison finally convinced to cooperate.

Day and the night lost their usual meaning, exchanging places.

Time was screwed up, just like everything else.

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***

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Hardison put a big US map up on one screen, so they could track the red dots emerging, as group after group made their balloon actions. The Sea of Crimson started to actually spread in one slow wave all across the country, from east to west.

The second screen was reserved for local reporters and their reports on the actions, while the third was for major the TV houses that carried the news. It was a slow day even in international politics, nothing was happening, and the funny doings of crazy people found their place.

Hardison provided a bunch of inner, mostly secret home numbers for all the TV networks, and Sophie was busy making calls, grifting her way through TV crews, news rooms and editorial rooms, sending out crews and putting #TheSeaOfCrimson on the air even on a C4 program. For the last hour Florence had been sitting with her at the dining table, doing nothing, just listening to her with wide open eyes.

Eliot knew it was single-day news, but one day of this was exactly what they needed, nothing more.

“Okay, that’s it,” Hardison said coming to his bed, lowering himself tiredly onto the chair. “I officially proclaim there’s not a single red balloon in the country, I bought all of them.”

He quickly checked his posture, though Hardison wasn’t Betsy. The hacker couldn’t see how he felt just by observing the number of pillows behind his back. Including the one below his mouse hand. He was moving only his fingers and wrist. He relaxed everything that could be relaxed, just in case.

The hacker rubbed his eyes with one hand, but he was still typing with the other on a tablet. Eliot almost smiled; now he knew how fucking exhausting this typing and laptop business was, but he had no intentions of ever letting him know that fact. “All the groups confirmed they are in contact with suppliers, and most of them are waiting to start,” he said. “The Las Vegas group is still deciding if they should go before a giant fireworks show tonight, or if it would be better to use the crowd that will gather to see it. The admins can take over now, I can go back to voting.” The sooner the better. Their plan robbed them of many voters, occupied with balloons, and the race looked hopeless now.

“About the voting,” Hardison lowered his voice, glancing at the table with Sophie and Florence. “I put every computer in use, if you know what I mean,” he nodded to the three laptops that were on the coffee table, all three of them with aquarium screensavers.  Eliot suspected that Hardison had followed Betsy’s advice – she tried to make him play Happy Aquarium, to lower his stress levels.

“No, I don’t know what you mean. Why does everybody think that fish are calming? You really haven’t ever gone fishing, right? There’s nothing-”

“What damn fish, you idiot, it’s a screensav-” Hardison sighed. “Look, the laptops are voting for M7 in your Supernatural/ Castle poll. I made a simple script-”

“You mean, three more votes?”

“Actually, nine. I made a virtual system inside the virtual system, allowing-”

He stopped listening, calculating the numbers. Nine votes every few seconds. For hours. They could vote even when the team was out tonight.

“Why the secrecy?” he asked when Hardison took a breath between rambling about RAM and ROM.

“…and if I just had enough time – what? Ah, Florence. I thought she wouldn’t like it. She is decent. Fair play, equal chances, that kind of crap. Keep your mouth shut, until I feel her pulse. Maybe I’m wrong.”

“Did you just say you might be wro-”

“Nope.” Hardison shot him a stare.

“Yeah, right,” he forced a grin, though he wasn’t feeling it at all. “Since you’re here, tell me – what do we think about these photo manipulations?” He turned his laptop to him to look at the two pictures that came in a message.

Hardison sighed and took a look. “ _We_ think they are superbly executed,” he said solemnly.

“Not long enough.”

“The use of colors shows the creator’s command of the, the…they are great. Put a lot of smileys in the message, and lot of exclamation marks, a few yays and use caps lock, okay? Why are they sending you pictures?”

“They want to know what I think,” he grumbled. “How the hell should I know why geeky people do things?”

“Okay, that’s a good sign, they respect your opinion. Don’t refuse anything of that sort, and always be nice and polite.”

“Seriously?” He had nine unopened messages waiting. He was tired of being nice. He went to spy on the Supernatural group, and after switching from group to group three times, he forgot where he was and who he was – he almost said something incriminating. Because Florence was right, there wasn’t any difference between these fans – every group shared the same love and devotion, just for a different subject. It would be much easier if the opponents were a nasty, poisonous bunch, he would crush them without any mercy – but they were nice, funny and warm, just like she said.

While he was thinking, staring blindly at the inbox, two more pings rang out. Two more messages. As if he wasn’t late with everything already…

“Guys, we have news here,” Nate’s voice stirred them both. “Hardison, put the fourth screen on all six.”

A head on the screens grew bigger, turning into Jules Brewer. The blond reporter caught him, again, at the door of the C4 building. Yet, this time, something was different, judging by his smile.

“ _M7 supporters showed their loyalty to the show, Mr. Brewer. People all across the country are answering their call. Have you changed your mind_?”

“ _It’s wonderful to see that C4 has that of a strong fan base._ ” His answer provoked a pissed off gasp from the dining table. “ _C4 and our shows always kept fans first, taking all their wishes into consideration_.” Okay, this made _his_ blood boil now. If their Facebook guy was an example of treatment toward the fans, he should burn their house down. _Maybe he would, eventually, however this ended_.

“ _Does that mean that you will take their wish to continue with M7 into consideration? Are you here to give us some good news_?”

“ _I’m here because you caught me going on my lunch break, dear lady_ ,” Brewer still held that same smile. “ _And to fans of M7, I have one message. If all of Boston managed to produce just the ten people that gathered to perform this – I must say, beautiful – show with balloons, what does it say about our decision? Boston has over a million citizens, and just ten of them watch M7? Is that your message? Dear fans, as much as we’d like to give you what you want, we simply can’t afford to support a show that has ten out of a million viewership. Do your math before continuing. You will have to show much more than ten people if you want to be taken seriously. Thank you_.”

“Ouch,” Sophie quietly said when the screen went black again.

Ouch, indeed.

And their time was running out.

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***

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He spent one hour commenting on a thread named ‘Brewer’s newest shit’, full of discouraged and pissed off people, trying to hide that he felt exactly the same.  An eventual win in SpoiledTV’s polls now looked irrelevant. That would change exactly nothing.

In spite of the sunken feeling that colored every comment, people were not giving up their actions. The Las Vegas crew promised a show that would be better than the fireworks.

“Tell them to record that,” Hardison replied when he reported that after the hacker came to him again. “I’ll put it on You Tube and boost viewership, so our reporter can have some significant numbers to tell Brewer when she corners him again. If fifty damn million watched the balloon show, what message is _that_?” Hardison sounded pissed off, too, and that was good. “But Nate has to come up with something pretty quick.”

They both looked at Nate who was sitting on a kitchen counter stool in front of the screens, looking at something on the lower right screen – documents with small letters and many numbers. It didn’t look like the Season Six part of the job.

“He said this was just the first step,” he pointed out.

As if he sensed they were watching him, Nate darted a glance at them. This time, Eliot regretted the half-darkness, he couldn’t read his face. Only thing he could see, however, was that Nate looked directly at him. He lowered his head as if watching the emerging of new comments on the screen, covering his face with his hair, but when Nate took out his phone, he abruptly raised his head again.

“Hi, Betsy.” Nate sounded lazy. “Busy with something? Can you talk?”

What the hell… He was good at hiding shit like this from them, he always had been. Nate couldn’t see anything.  But even Hardison twitched.

“Good to hear that. No, nothing important. I just wanted to ask something. You said that Parker could walk normally. What exercises you would suggest to further improve her state? I was thinking about swimming. Relaxed swimming should help, right? Great, thank you.” Nate finished his call, not paying any attention to Parker’s grin that flashed from the dining table, and put another set of documents on the screen. He didn’t look at the bed.

“What was that?” Hardison asked quietly. “What damn _swimming_? I don’t like the sound of that word.”

 _That was fishing, Hardison. A warning that he noticed something_. “Probably the second step,” he said lightly. Hardison darted him a suspicious look – too much lightness in his voice, the next stage was fucking chirping – and walked away.

George, on the shelf again and watching him from above, looked haunted, as if ten cats were surrounding him.

He sighed and opened another message in the seventh chat window.

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***

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Florence deeply regretted that she hadn’t written down all the advice Sophie had told her about character behavior. They were in Lucille heading to the slaughterhouse then, it wasn’t exactly the place for writing, but damn, this woman was an expert. She counted seven different personalities and voices that she used just on the NBC employees, while making calls up the ladder, finishing with a member of the Board of Directors. Would the grifter consider a small role in M7? Probably not, it would be too much attention, too dangerous for her. But that was such a shame, she was a natural talent.

Surprisingly, Parker wasn’t bad either. She played a thrilled viewer who called networks to support their decision to show #TheSeaOfCrimson reports, and though she wasn’t as versatile, she managed to make four calls to the same person without him noticing that it was her all over again.

This gang, the five of them, obviously could play at least fifty different roles if necessary.

Yet, maybe she ought to warn them about the merciless world of TV networks.  A different kind of ‘merciless’, not _their_ kind. Brewer wasn’t one to be taken lightly, he was a dangerous enemy. She knew he would recover very quickly, and she wasn’t disturbed by his reply. Worse was yet to come.

Their action would continue and she knew a few of his potential reactions, so she left Sophie and Parker and went to her laptop to write articles that would cover Brewer’s statements in advance.

Hardison was sitting by Eliot again, she noticed. He stood from her chair when he saw her coming. Did the hacker see that Eliot hid his face from him, and sat visibly stiff, radiating a ‘go away’ sign? Probably not, judging by his smile. There must’ve been some other reason he kept going to him since they’d returned.

“I'm just going to write a few articles, you don’t have to go,” she said quickly. “Stay if you’re doing something important.”

“We’re not,” Eliot said before Hardison could answer. She was right, he didn’t want him too near. He raised his eyes from the screen, moving only his head; the rest of his body was arranged into an immobile, falsely relaxed position. “There’s nothing that we have to do now, I’m voting and going through messages, pictures, and stories while waiting for the next town to join the action.” He turned his head to the hacker, again slowly. “You can go take care of the fish while I finish this.”

What damn fish? Wherever he tried to send him, it didn’t work, Hardison sat on the bed. She took the chair, watching that interaction. Hardison looked like he was in a good mood.

“Nah, I’ll just sit here for a while,” Hardison said. “It’s easier than coming back after a minute when you ask what do _we_ think about pictures and stories. What stories, btw?”

“Some short story, apparently a fan fiction. A girl wants to hear what I think.”

“And you’ll read that?” the hacker eyed him. “Seriously?”

“I’m _nice_.” The warning growl had no strength thought he tried, and Florence clearly saw when he rearranged his thoughts into something else, less suspicious. “Of course I’ll read it, it’s only a few pages. She called it PWP, whatever that might be,” he continued, calmer. “She said I might not like it, but I don’t see what’s not to like in some slashing and water sports.”

Dear god. She quickly looked at Hardison who almost dropped his tablet. They exchanged one wide eyed, empty stare.

“Are you – are you sure she said slash-ing?” she asked with level voice. “There was an –ing in it?”

“No, don’t remember. Something like that. Why?”

“Ah, nothing, just sounded strange. Read on.” She got up, and Hardison followed in a heartbeat.

“Now I remember, the fish do need some attention,” he murmured going after her. They quickly retreated to the sofa, where Hardison pretended to do something with the laptops full of moving screens. They both turned their backs to the bed.

“Should I start a countdown?” Hardison asked in a low voice. “You’re aware that he is a fan fiction, well, virgin? It’s not wise to let porn-without-plot, slash and watersports be his first-”

“Do you really want to _explain_ why he shouldn’t read it?” she whispered back. “Because I don’t want to, that’s for sure. Maybe if we told him to google it first-”

“Ack!!” an exclamation came from the bed. “The hell is this?!”

Well, too late. She shot an reassuring smile to Nate who watched their hurried whispering with raised eyebrows, and turned around to look at Eliot.

“I saw him look like this only once, when we watched Sophie’s acting – and I hoped I would never see that again,” Hardison murmured beside her. Eliot looked aghast, and she couldn’t quite connect that expression to Sophie’s superb acting skills. “Okay, stop, that’s enough,” he continued when Eliot narrowed his eyes, reading further, with completely stupefied eyes.

“This, this, this…” he was blinking now, and she barely bit back a chuckle.

“I said, stop,” Hardison’s grin wasn’t suppressed, he was enjoying this immensely.

“I said I would read it, Hardison!” Eliot hissed an answer. “I promised I would, so I’m gonna do it, and she’s waiting for-”

“Read what?” Parker asked, emerging behind the shelf with a bowl, and before any of them could react in any way, she peeked at his screen. He slammed the laptop shut.

“No, Parker, nothing for you to read. Go away.”

She raised the bowl. “Second breakfast. A light one, only 800 calories,” she said, eyeing the laptop significantly. The message was clear, and Florence wasn’t surprised a bit when he took the bowl without any complaints.

She wasn’t sure, though, if she wanted them to notice he did all of that with his left hand, or not. Before she could think it over, she moved closer – he held the bowl with his left, the laptop was shut, and it would be only a second before Hardison noticed that he froze, gathering the strength to move his right hand. She opened the laptop, as if she wanted to see the story.

“How can you allow this?” he asked, truly confused. “They are butchering your characters, you created them – you know what they think, feel, do – and you know what they wouldn’t, couldn’t do. Why don’t you sue these-”

“It’s not a matter of copyright,” she said gently. “It’s a matter of love. And love can be expressed in many ways. Should be. All different kinds of love.”

“I hope you won’t ask what _we_ think of it,” Hardison jumped in before Eliot said anything. “Can I see your review when you’re done?

“Go away.” There wasn’t any growl in it, again, because he was looking at the story, as if just now realizing he would have to say something about it. Pretty much lost.

She lowered her voice. “Go to Amazon, and copy parts of reviews that talk about style, or expressing, erm, feelings. Or whatever. Action more than feelings, perhaps?” By the end it took an immense effort to keep a serious face.

His scowl deepened. “Glad you’re having so much fun,” he growled to both of them. “What part of ‘go away’ did you not understand?”

“This is interesting,” Parker said from behind him. “Can you increase the font a bit, I’m missing-”

“Okay. That’s. It.” Well, that growl was the genuine one, it hit all the right spots, and Parker and Hardison walked away, still grinning, but pretty quickly.

She took her chair and laptop, and tested his advice about thinking about her grand grand aunt to become invisible. Maybe it worked, maybe it didn’t –  it still felt idiotic, though - but he just continued reading, not sending her away after them.

Those minutes, surprisingly, lifted a part of the burden that was pressing her chest and tightening her stomach into a small, heavy ball.

And again, he made her laugh, when she was sure that only sound that would escape her would be a cry.

She cast a sideways glance at him, suddenly suspicious.

He didn’t notice it, occupied with typing, absent and with narrowed eyes. As if replying to some unknown fan girl was the most important thing in the world now.

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***

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Of course he googled pwp, slash and watersports first, he had learned his lesson well. He was in an unfamiliar territory, full of booby traps, and if he didn’t want to raise suspicion, he had to check every doubtful thing. Twice. Preferably by poking it with a stick first, from the safe distance.

He couldn’t miss this opportunity to get rid of Hardison, or to at least lessen his hovering over him. The hacker maybe didn’t even know why he lingered near him, but the kid had a good feeling for his fucking ‘disturbances in the force’. Or whatever shit that was.

With this little scene, that lowered the tension and even made Florence laugh – very important on many different levels – he diverted Hardison’s attention and gave him a good dose of his normal behavior. It wouldn’t last long, but it distracted the hacker from thoughtful stares. Sooner or later, he would come to poke at him again, to see what was strange. But, sooner or later, he would start to feel better, and it would be easier to hide everything.

 _The sooner, the better_. He looked at Nate who was now using all three of the lower screens; upper three were still mostly red. He couldn’t see what he was doing, but there weren’t just documents in front of him, now he saw some tiny pictures as well. Nate was in full speed.

He had no idea if he would have enough time to follow _that_ speed. His every second thought, still, was to hide in the bathroom and curl up on the floor, and wait for pain to pass.

The next chance to use more diversion came in less than half an hour; Hardison came to tell him about the modifications in his metal detectors which he used to find the air pollution monitors in the woods. He sent him to bring him another bag of ice – the hacker had noticed he was typing with only his left hand, even when there wasn’t any need to move the mouse.

Yet, after that, he couldn’t think of anything else he could do, except checking the time and counting the bullet holes in the walls while pretending he _wasn’t_ listening to Hardison's metal detector specifications.

Florence, sitting on their left, was of no use. She played dead, working on her laptop.

“You can use it to help Parker dig out the remaining bullets,” he said when Hardison took a short break, typing something. He immediately bit his tongue – letting him know he had listened to him wasn’t, ever, a bright idea. But in a moment of brief panic, he remembered where he could send him. “Can you find something about Goon C? He used a Type 81 light machine gun. A very, very cautious guy, judging by the choice of weapon. He is good.”

“What’s cautious about using a _machine gun_?”

“The point is, _which_ machine gun he used. The Type 81 is a solid, simple, very effective field weapon, nothing fancy. It’s reliable, works in every situation, no jamming, no malfunction. It’s Chinese production, based on the AK-47, and it’s indestructible.”

“Well, well.” Nate’s voice, soft and calm, came from the screens. It even stopped Sophie’s and Parker’s phone calls, they went silent too. “You _won’t_ guess what I’ve been working on right now.”

Nate deleted the reporters and balloons from all the screens, leaving only the things he had been working on. Without the constant chirping from the different channels, the silence fell dull and heavy, melting into the half-darkness.

They all waited.

“You might want to come closer,” Nate said pulling up the tiny pictures, spreading them out, now big enough for them to see them.

The Ford pickup, with packages with Chinese letters on them.

Giant yellow trucks, imported from China.

After a few seconds, the third image followed – a Type 81 machine gun, Chinese production.

“Briefing time, guys.” Nate’s smile became broader. “We need to talk.”

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*

 

 

 


	38. Chapter 38

 

Chapter 38

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***

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Ah, damn. An official briefing in front of the screens meant he had to get up and walk. Not only that; the screens would disperse the half darkness that so perfectly hid his movement and face.

And he couldn’t say no. He didn’t want to – Chinese letters, trucks and weapons, when all gathered in one place, sang a very deadly song.

Slow getting up was covered by bringing George with him, and it also provided enough time for the rest of them to take the sofa and chairs. Nate was occupied with a document that he zoomed in on, giving him enough time to grab a stool from the dining table and bring it with him. Sitting behind them would spare him the inquisitive glances as well as piling on the sofa.

He put the chair behind the sofa, in the middle, sat and put his elbows on the backrest, all in one swift move. _Damn_. He really hoped no one would ask him anything, at least not in the next few minutes. His teeth were gritted so hard that he felt his jaw cracking. Yet, he managed to raise no suspicion, and above that, he found the exact limit. His elbow was almost as high as his shoulder – one inch more and he would have to go back to the bathroom for another set of stitches. _Nope_. He would have to be picked up from the floor and carried to the bathroom, and locked there until Betsy came with a triple dose of elephant tranquilizer.

“Knudsen wasn’t quite aware of all info he gave Inspector Olivia Lohman,” Nate said when they all settled down; Hardison, Florence and Parker on the sofa, and Sophie in the opposite chair. He held a bunch of documents in his hand, and he started throwing them on the coffee table. “And with the things that Hardison dug up, we have an impressive bunch of papers. Permits, work sheets, contracts, employee lists, results of various pollution studies, equipment tests, implementations under testing, lists of tangible assets, construction equipment, even vibration analysis.” One by one, the papers flew to the table, until only one remained in his hand. “It took time to go through all of it, not knowing what to look for – when there’s too much info, all the important things are buried.”

“There’s no such a thing as ‘too much info’,” Hardison murmured.

“Oh yes, there is,” Florence said in the same voice.

Nate waved the paper in his hand, and they both shut up.

“The good thing was, that a few suspicious things helped to narrow the search,” he went on. “Why the hell would anybody import Chinese dump trucks, even if duties are set to zero for imports? The sand excavation camp, even as huge as this one is, doesn’t need so many of them – I tried to count them that evening, but I saw only one parking lot, more of them were behind the main buildings. I don’t think that mine is just a cover up for something, no; it’s a very good business that brings in a lot of money – but it’s not _only_ that. Knudsen is using it – or should I say –  the Italian mob is using Knudsen’s mine as a perfect spot for something else. A legal business, far away from curious eyes, in the woods, isolated from any danger. Did I mention huge?” Nate turned around and put two pictures of the mine machinery on the screens. “And don’t forget an even bigger complex that’s connected to the mine – the slaughterhouse ruins.”

“We couldn’t see much of it that night,” Hardison said, glancing back at him, and he nodded. “But there wasn’t anything important – just a very good place for interrogating and killing people.”

“And I walked through the upper levels, while you were in the basement ones,” Parker added. “A lot of garbage and destroyed rooms and walls, nothing more.”

Nate looked at him, and he stopped shrugging at the last moment. “They’re right,” he said. “I didn’t see anything that would tell us there’s something important hidden there. They had electricity, though, but it was probably automatically connected to the mine. Nothing new – just a few dim lights.”

“You notice anything unusual while you were being driven in the van? Could you track where you were taken?”

“Highways and bigger intersections, yes, but I got lost when we went onto the smaller roads through the woods. Why?”

“How did you know they were smaller roads?”

“Lots of potholes, many curves, and lots of sand by the end of it. _Why_?”

Nate smiled, pulling up a picture that was taken from tree level, so the road was visible.

“It was raining today, so it’s little blurry,” Nate said, and put another image near the first one. The road again, but different. “This one is blurry too, taken from the same spot. But it’s not the same road. This one connects the mine and the slaughterhouse.”

They all looked at the pictures. The second road was broad, without potholes, going in a straight line from the camp to the ruins.

“Any idea why the road to an abandoned ruin is much better maintained than the public road that leads to the camp?” Nate asked. “So their occasional victims can enjoy a comfortable last ride? I don’t think so. There _is_ something in that slaughterhouse, and it’s well hidden. Tonight we’re gonna find it.”

“Well hidden things are usually well guarded,” he said.

“And it’s raining,” Hardison said.

“And I don’t have shoes for mud, Nate,” Sophie continued the line.

“Not to mention that we would need days of searching to find anything – as you said, it _is_ huge.” Parker finished.

Nate looked at all of them.

“Are you _nagging_?” he asked, slowly.

“I’m not,” Florence said. “But I also don’t have any clothes for searching ruins. Can we… just skip that?”

She was sitting right in front of him and he couldn’t see her face, yet he knew why she said that. She didn’t know, though, that their objections were irrelevant, when Nate said that something had to be done.

“You can go and dig up something in my closets upstairs,” Nate said. “There’s enough clothes to choose-”

“Fuck!” Florence shot to he r feet like a rocket; the move was so sudden that he almost stood up too, scanning the room for danger. “Fuckfuckfuckfuck…” she ran around the sofa, followed by their stares, to the working table and her phone. “Can’t believe I forgot- fuckfuckfuck – Hello? Florence McCoy here, may I speak to – oh, Vivian, it’s you. I’m sorry, I completely forgot to call you – yes, yes, yes, I can, you can send it. Hectic few days, you know how it goes. Thank you, I really appreciate that. Today, yes, even tomorrow is okay if it’s too late now, the important thing is that it’s finished. Thank you _so_ much, Vivian. Bye.”

She lowered the phone and slumped into her chair, looking as if somebody just canceled the death sentence.

“And what was _that_?” Nate asked dryly. “I thought we had a deal, Florence – doing nothing on your own. You can’t call-”

“My dress for the PVA ceremony,” she hissed. “Over a month of making – no damn threat is gonna stand between me and my dress – it’s the PVA, for god’s sake, it’s almost like going to the Oscars!”

“Which dress?” Sophie jumped in when Nate opened his mouth.

“Louis Vuitton.” Her voice changed in instant, she almost giggled.

“You don’t say!” The same tone appeared in Sophie’s voice as well. “Tell me everything!”

“Erm, ladies, the slaughterhouse…”

Florence left the phone and returned to the sofa, passing by Nate. “It’s princess style, dark green silk, extremely tight, but you’ll see, it has thin gold and emerald lines that follow-”

“Bare shoulders and back!? Perfect – so classy. You’ll look gorgeous in it. And that reminds me, we have to think about our clothes for that evening. It’ll be a busy day tomorrow, but I think we’ll manage to squeeze one or two shopp-”

“If we can continue the briefing for just two more minu-”

“I do hope you decided about shoes, too,” Sophie talked over Nate’s words and continued on about heels, and Nate snapped his mouth shut. Hardison was grinning again; his good mood today was really annoying, but their chatter almost made him smile too.

Parker, of course, had the same expression that Nate had – raised eyebrows and confused frown.

Orion chose the right moment to jump in the action. He climbed on the sofa directly into Hardison’s lap, provoking a series of loud sneezes that slowed the women a bit, enough for Nate to attract their attention again. He stood up and waved the paper in front of their faces.

“Chinese trucks,” he said firmly. “Chinese guns. Chinese letters. Eyes on the screen, both of you.”

The two pairs of eyes rolled first, but then complied. Eliot was certain that their amount of suffering was ten levels higher than his at that moment.

“Nobody mentioned us going to the ceremony,” Parker said in a moment of silence.

“We’ll get to that part - everything is connected here, and the slaughterhouse will lead us to the PVA, step by step. If you let me speak.”

“But I won’t have to wear a dress, right?”

“No, Parker, probably not. Now,” Nate put one document on the screen, and put the last piece of paper on the table. “This is the last import sheet that sums up the last month. The mine imported five containers of spare truck parts. Hardison was kind enough to dig up something for comparison. Mines of that size, and that size of vehicle fleet, need approximately one container of spare parts for their trucks, for an entire year.”

“So, they're smuggling something,” Hardison said. “Nothing unusual for a mob. And probably something Chinese.” The hacker tilted his head, listening to the quiet sound of rain that was coming through the broken windows. “There’s no need to go anywhere tonight. We did our job with the air pollution monitors, and we planted enough cameras all around, and near the ruins to be able to sit here and just watch-”

“We don’t have enough time to wait for them to show us something suspicious on their own. We’ll have to provoke them to do it, now,” Nate shook his head. And then looked at him. “There’s also not enough time to complete the ‘center of the gravity’ plan. We have to take them down separately. One by one.”

Well, that was it. Four fucking jobs, when he wasn’t able to finish either one. And Nate wasn’t the one to blame this time, this decision had nothing to do with his need to beat their opponents. They _had to_ deal with Knudsen before he killed them. This was a win or die situation.

They all fell silent, probably waiting for one more outburst and fight.

Insecure, scared, ruined, terrified… and tired. He let that silence spread for a few more seconds, trying to hide the sinking feeling.

“So,” he spoke finally. “Knudsen, the sand excavation camp, Don Lazzara, _and_ C4. In two days? What are you gonna chose for an encore?”

Nate just smirked.

“Are we completely sure that we’ll have to deal with Don Lazzara?” Sophie said quietly. Damn, that voice brought back the memory of her fear when she talked to the Italian. The grifter seemed strangely reluctant; any other mark would bring the glint of fight to her eye. The harder the target was, the stronger that fire burned. Now, she seemed only worried. It also reminded him of their talk in the bathroom – she still didn’t tell him what was troubling her. “I mean,” she went on, “there is a possibility that he doesn’t connect Knudsen’s latest killing attempt, and its victims, with his suddenly going down.”

“Hardly,” Nate said.

Sophie now looked at him, with that veil of worry still present over her eyes. “And why aren’t you yelling _now_? He just said we’ll have four jobs, the same thing you went berserk over the first time. What changed?”

“No guarantee that Knudsen will buy this police surrounding as long as we need it,” he said. “We can’t reach Don Lazzara, to take him with his nephew now – and Knudsen has to go before he kills us. It’s simple. It would be ideal if we could take Knudsen, Don Lazzara and that mine in one move – but no time for that now. We have to do what we can.”

She tilted her head, eyeing him. He allowed himself one shallow sigh. “My recovery has already been interrupted and messed up,” he continued. It was better to give her something, than to let her _think_. “It’s better to do everything necessary in two days, and then continue recovering without further messing up, in peace. I can do two days. No matter how fast a pace we work at.” Florence turned a little, glancing at him for a second. “But, if this lasts longer, I might go down before the end; there is a line I can stretch my strength to.”

“What would Betsy say?”

“She would agree. Ask her. There are only two options. Two days of fast-paced action, followed by ten days of bed. Or, three or four days, and four weeks in bed, at least, just to return myself to this stage of healing.” She still didn’t look convinced, suspicion clear on her face. “Speeding up, in this case, is good, Soph. I’ve set myself to function for those two days, and I will do it. That’s all you need to know.”

Damn it, he was talking too much, again – he should’ve just growled at her instead of explaining. Whatever she thought about that, she left unsaid, giving only a small nod.

It was time for a break, and also to remind them that he was normal. Relatively speaking. He stood up, checking Orion’s position and distance from George, and went into the kitchen for a new bag of ice.  The damn thing was very unpleasant, having no practical use except freezing his elbow and moistening his sleeve, but this perceptive bunch scanned everything. He had to give them some reason for his constrained moves.

“And what if we just stop with the Season Six Job, and put all efforts into dealing with the mobsters?” Florence asked, looking even more unhappy than usual. He returned as quickly as he could – her posture was radiating turmoil. He didn’t have to see her eyes, glancing back and forth between Nate and Sophie, to know she was wavering, half ready to spill out everything.

“All our efforts _are_ put into dealing with the mobsters – what we do with your network is, for now, just fun,” Nate said. “If things change, if I see it’s necessary, I might pull the plug – but nothing indicates it for now.”

She took one deep breath. “And what if all of this just suddenly…stops? I mean, maybe a small delay would be, be…if we go away and hide somewhere, just for a few days, to buy some more time, that would give us more time for everything, right?”

It was a matter of seconds until Nate simply asked why, and he couldn’t be sure she would keep silent. And he couldn’t think of anything to say to deflect that.

He looked at them lined up on the sofa – Hardison, Florence and Parker, right in front of him, and opened the bag of ice. It took only three seconds – and he could be pretty fast with his left hand, even in this condition – for one cube of ice to end up under each of their collars.

He pulled back and grinned – jumping, screaming, shrieking and curses exploded in a second. Hardison almost jumped over the coffee table, launching Orion from his lap into the air. The cat, however, managed to land gracefully on the end of the sofa, but then _stumbled_ directly into George. Accidentally, of course. Damn, he was starting to admire that damn beast.

Parker was the first to get rid of the cube, with one twist of her back – in the next second that same cube hit him in the head, followed by the hissed curses. Sophie helped Florence, Hardison caught his cube somewhere around his waist, and he found himself on the receiving end of five mad, shocked and bewildered stares. Okay, Sophie looked as if she was deciding whether or not to laugh or yell, and Nate had that pained ‘what did I do to deserve this’ expression.

Even Hardison couldn’t find words – and that made this priceless, seeing him with mouth open, trying to form any sound, and utterly failing.

He put the bag on his elbow and blinked at them as innocently as he could. “You were sayin’?” he asked Florence politely.

“Gah!” She turned on her heel and moved away. She sat on the armrest of Sophie’s chair, as far from him as she could. “Insane,” she hissed. Being pissed off suited her much better than being unhappy.

“Always wanted to do that,” he grinned at Parker and Hardison; the hacker was shaking his head in consternation, and Parker’s gaze had very sharp edges in it.

“I’m _delighted_ to see you in such a good mood, Eliot.”  Uh-oh, Nate’s voice was bleak, every word perfectly enunciated – it calmed Hardison and Parker down in an instant. They sat, cautiously, taking the ends of the sofa, leaving the middle in front of him empty. He erased his grin, remembering that he should be affected by that tone, too. “However,” Nate continued, the sharp edge from Parker’s eyes creeping into his voice. “I do hope it will continue. What can you tell us about the Type 81 rifle?”

“Not a rifle, a light machine gun.” Good, business again. Grinning was tiresome when he had to fake it. “Goon C missed a nice opportunity – that type can fire grenades. Good thing they arranged a cover up and silencer to increase shooting time; grenades are messy and loud. It has been the standard weapon for the PLA – Chinese People’s Liberation Army – since the 80s, though the PLA is in the process of replacing the Type 81 with Type 95 and Type 03…” he trailed off when one very disturbing thought formed in his mind.

Hardison reached for his tablet, and quiet clicking was the only sound for a few seconds.

“And how big a number are we talking about?” Nate followed his train of thought, of course.

“Damn. Hundreds of thousands.  The PLA is a huge army. This isn’t good.”

“So, very soon, the country will be swarmed with a cheap, reliable in combat, indestructible weapon which destroyed my apartment in minutes, and it’ll be on the streets, free for every criminal?”

“It’s not for street shootings, too big – but yes, that’s it.”

“Legally, you can’t buy it in the US,” Hardison jumped in. “It’s not on the market, the Chinese government doesn’t allow the sale yet.” He studied his tablet for a second. “Though, in Canada they have a few. Do you want one? Instead of a shotgun?”

“What damn shotg-” Nate took a deep breath and stopped. “They are already here, Hardison.”

“Yep, probably,” Hardison sighed. “I’ll make a few calculations to see how many of them can be packed into the containers, that would give us one solid point in tonight’s search. Maybe this shooting was a test drive. Well, Bonnano will be happy with this catch.”

“Why don’t you just send him all the info you have, without going out tonight?” Florence asked. It seemed that even the ice cube wasn’t enough to distract her – yet she got the point. They didn’t have any real evidence, just circumstantial, but Bonnano could work on it through all the legal channels. The only problem was – they would be dead before he finished it.

“Because a few suspicions aren’t enough for a warrant.” Nate shook his head. “We have to have something concrete to tell him, or show him, before we let him take over and put Knudsen behind bars. Don’t forget one more important thing – Don Lazzara is deep in all the city functions, and trust me, that includes the police too. The moment Patrick puts his action in motion, he would know it. We will have one chance to strike, just one – and we must not miss.”

Hardison chose that moment to put a weather report on one screen, and an old lady cheerfully informed them that heavy rain was expected later in the day, with further decreasing temperatures. She seemed thrilled that they were heading into the eye of one of the nastiest storms in the last two decades. Over the next few days they expected a culmination of the week’s constant raining. Hardison turned it off when she started to list warnings for the lower city blocks that were in danger of flooding.

“Nothing better than a veil of rain when you have to sneak up on your enemy,” Nate smirked at the hacker. “Now, put the cameras we planted, on all the screens. You’ll have to leave everything you’re working on, and concentrate just on that. It’s essential we don’t miss anything.”

Well, they were busy in the woods and mud, he had to admit. More than fifteen little screens blinked in front of them, all showing various parts of the slaughterhouse. There were a few too close for his liking – they went too damn close, _without him_ – but the last one made him growl. One recorded the main entrance, from the _inside_.

“Who-”

“There was no one on site,” Nate said. “We checked.”

“And what if,” Florence started and sighed. “Did I start any sentence today with something besides ‘And what if?’ I don’t think so. Never mind… what if they do nothing?  We’ll just sit here and watch it, waiting to, maybe, see them doing something suspicious? Well, that might prolong all this just as I asked.”

“No, of course not,” Nate handed a piece of paper to Sophie. “You weren’t paying attention, I told you already that we don’t have enough time for that – we have to _provoke_ him into showing us something.”

He nodded to Sophie and she took out her phone, arranging her face into a weird smile.

Florence, still sitting on her armrest, moved like she was going to stand up, but Sophie held up her hand, giving her the sign she didn’t have to move, while she was waiting for the call to be answered. In any case, Florence had no place on the sofa anymore, Orion had taken the entire middle, taking up more space than Hardison and Parker together, laying on his back and pretending to sleep.

“Good day, Mr. Knudsen, Inspector Olivia Lohman here,” Sophie sang in that irritable voice; no wonder he gave her every single paper in his office, just to get rid of her. “I am soooo sorry that our chance for coffee was ruined, but I pushed my department to work just a little faster. Oh, I know, of course I didn’t have to do that, I _wanted_ to do it,” she giggled, an awful sound, and all of them twitched, even him. “We shall have our inspection of your mine tomorrow, and maybe we could have that coffee then?” It wasn’t hard to imagine the expression on Knudsen’s face when he heard that, but Sophie didn’t give him time to react in any negative way. “That’s why I’m calling you, you know… I shouldn’t do this, it’s completely against our regulations, inspections should be unannounced – but I sped the process up and it’s fair to give you a little time to shine your brightest colors tomorrow. No, gorgeous, you don’t _owe_ me coffee now – though I expect to see you there tomorrow. I don't usually go on inspections, but I’ll be there. To see you.”

She listened for a moment, but whatever Knudsen said, it was very short. “Of course, you too. Bye.” She smiled, putting the phone down.

However, Eliot wasn’t sure, but he felt that something was missing in Sophie’s performance, as if she was just doing a job that had to be done, nothing more. Yep, that was it – he didn’t sense any enjoyment in improvising, this time.

“Knudsen has a mine full of smuggled weapons, and an inspection some time tomorrow,” Nate glanced at his watch. “It can be early in the morning, or late in the afternoon, he can’t know. And now we shall see where and what he is hiding, because he will show us when he pushes all his men to hide all traces. Timing is essential - not too much time, or too little to react.” He observed the little screens for a few seconds, then went on. “Of course, _if_ there is something hidden in that slaughterhouse. Maybe the new road was just tax-deductible.”

“You won’t tell me, again, what are you going to do tomorrow?” Florence said.

“No.”

“Not even how this,” she waved her hand to the screens, “can take both Knudsen and his mine down? Because if he is arrested for weapons trafficking, the mine will not be affected. You don’t shut a factory if the owner beat up his wife, Nate, not even if he did it _in_ the factory. And that slaughterhouse is maybe his property, but not part of the mine.”

“I am aware of that.” Nate collected all the papers from the table, a clear sign the briefing was over, but she didn’t get the message. “If you’re not busy with articles, can you talk with Sophie about the sponsors of your show? She has a few ideas, but needs more info.”

“Yeah, I can,” she sighed, giving up.

“Okay. Hardison, keep your eyes on the cameras – Parker, you can help him, if you want to take a break from calling networks. Eliot? Facebook?”

“Busy, the action has started, and only two towns reported delays,” he said. It was time to return to the bed and voting, but he decided to sit here until they all dispersed. No bag of ice would help if he swayed after sitting for a short time.

He changed his mind almost immediately, because nobody moved. If he stayed here, _that_ would draw attention to him, not the swaying. Hardison and Parker weren’t the problem, both occupied with the screens and had their backs to him, Nate was going through the papers again, but Sophie and Florence were facing him. And looking at him.

Not only did he have to get up, he also had to take George with him; leaving him here, just a few feet from the lurking beast, was out of the question. He stood up, feeling, literally, the color draining from his face – if he had any at all.

“Do you plan to continue watching the episodes, and how? Taking one screen from Hardison’s cameras, or on your laptop?” Florence’s quick questions caught him in the middle of the move, and he knew why she had done it.

Sophie eyed him, waiting for his reply – and he was too occupied with suppressing the pain to talk – so he just tilted his head as if thinking.

“After you’re done,” he finally managed to say, taking George; slow moves should cover up swaying.

“We have to start with the fourth season, or we won’t finish it on time,” she continued. Her voice had a tense note, different from the tone she talked with before and that drew Nate’s attention, he glanced at them over the papers.

“There _is_ enough time for everything.” He had to say it, though he knew it wasn’t wise to stay here, to prolong this before their eyes. “Watching the episodes - it’s only a matter of the distribution of that time. If you know why you’re doing it, you can do everything.”

“Oh, _isn’t_ it a nice feeling to be on the receiving end of an undercurrent in the room,” Sophie softly said.

“Is it?” Florence smiled, a brief, sad smile that vanished in a second. When she looked at him again, her eyes were still reflecting it. “Do you know what the main theme of the fourth season is, Eliot?”

That was the first time she said his name.

“A long way down,” she whispered. “The main theme is Consequences.”

George froze.

He turned around, without answering, and went to the bed.

 

*

 


	39. Chapter 39

 

Chapter 39

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***

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The Supernatural and Castle groups had many more members than the M7 group, so nobody paid any attention to his recent arrival. Nobody noticed his second account, too. His request to join the groups was accepted before the intro of the fourth season's first episode played on Florence’s laptop.

She was sitting with her arms crossed, radiating a ‘I don’t want to talk about anything’ signal, and her comments were scarce and without funny moments. Bare facts that would be useful to him as a fan.

That was perfect, he could work and watch.

Before the end of the first episode – something in the mountains, with lots of snow – he made two pissed off posts about people who joined the Supernatural and Castle Vote & Promote groups expecting they wouldn’t have to vote and promote. It started an explosion, as he had witnessed in his own group. A war started and the chaos spread so quickly that he couldn’t read fast enough, new comments were emerging every three seconds. Both groups had thousands of members, and most of them were online, busy voting. He could easily leave and let them bitch each other out. He concentrated on the episode and waited for it to finish.

Florence left during a pause to talk with Sophie about sponsors, and he didn’t have the heart to tell her that no phone battery could last as long as it did in her episode, no matter how low the temperature was – somehow he knew that would be much worse than any comment about her hair.  A problem which, by the way, he still couldn’t figure out.

Her absence gave him enough time to further coordinate #SeaOfCrimson actions; one small screen was still playing reports from the field, as town by town came into the news. Many reporters were guessing which town would be next, and viewers joined the game. Hardison used that opportunity and hacked a few big gambling sites, or whatever it was called, while Nate monitored all the mine and slaughterhouse feeds. All across the US people were placing bets on the next town that would do the Balloon Thing, and the Magnificent Seven was all over the news, on everybody's lips.

Hardison almost rolled over the sofa when five people in some half deserted village in Arizona called the reporter to sign in with their action – their shirts were just red, without any symbols, and the balloons were marked with white paint. A man could count on people to cheat – and it worked in their favor.

When the second episode started, and Florence returned, he went back into the Supernatural and Castle groups, using his new account to attack his first one, taking the side of the people who didn’t want to vote. He attacked himself on a nasty, personal level, what was outrageous even in a serious dispute – yes, they were nice, warm people, and they were paying for it – and now he had two fronts. One was defending him, and the other one was defending… well, also him.

He silently sneaked out from the barrage fire, left the groups and went to look at the numbers in the polls. Both Supernatural and Castle had a significant drop in their votes, too busy with the hurt and angry quarrel and it would last for some time.

He desperately needed to rest, but there was too much of everything going on around him. He kept one eye on the mine cameras, though he knew Nate and Hardison wouldn’t miss anything. He voted, watched the episode, commented on a few different posts in all three groups, kept track of every action with the balloons, and everything started to melt into one giant, blurry mess.

Not good. He should’ve used these hours to prepare for the night and going out.

Yet, the throbbing in his chest had lessened a bit, or he was becoming too numb to feel the pain in its full intensity. Half sitting helped. It was his brain that was exhausted this time. His eyes hurt and burned, and rubbing them just made it worse; he couldn’t understand how Hardison wasn’t completely blind already.

The wisest thing he could do would be to go upstairs and sleep for a few hours, in the dark and silence; afternoon was crawling slowly but steadily into evening. And he couldn’t do it. No matter how exhausted, his brain was at full speed, too busy with everything around him to be able to sleep.

Florence paused the third episode at the very beginning, and went away. He was occupied with replaying to the pitchfork admin who was still raging because of Brewer’s sleazy comments about Boston fans, and he barely acknowledged her return, until she pushed a glass with orange poison in his face. Why the hell did all the people around him think that artificial, utterly unhealthy liquid sugar was something he should drink to get _better_?

“I put Jack in it,” she said. “Not too much, just two shots.”

She looked calmer, or she was becoming better at hiding fear and anger.

“You are surprisingly reasonable,” he said quietly.

“In this case, that’s not a compliment.”  Her eyes flashed for a moment, revealing he was right, partially. Not calmer – better at hiding. And he couldn’t blame her. He kept forgetting how completely crazy his decision was to someone who wasn’t a part of his world. He knew what had to be done, and he was going to do it, no matter what the cost – that decision didn’t even need any thinking, it was the only thing to do, no other option. He had to remind himself that in her world things worked differently. How could he explain to her that-

“We have the first move, people,” Hardison called when the motion detector on the one of the cameras blinked green. The hacker zoomed in that screen so they could all see the dark green Ford pickup approaching the main entrance of the slaughterhouse, and stopping near the ramps he remembered all too well. Four guys got out of the truck, too blurry and small to be recognized, but he saw something familiar in the way one of them moved. That one could be Goon B.

They didn’t waste any time, each took one package from the back of the Ford, and went inside. Hardison quickly switched to the inside camera, and that showed them their direction – they went down, not up. And that was all, they disappeared around a corner after only fifty steps.

“Do you think that-” Florence said, but he raised his hand in warning, stopping her, not taking his eyes from the screen. He counted the seconds, clearing all other sounds from his mind.

It took four minutes and fifty seconds for them to appear again by the entrance. Goon B stayed by the Ford, while the other three took the three remaining packages, and repeated the process.

“It's not good enough – we should’ve risked a little more and put cameras at least one level up and below ground,” Hardison said.

“No need for that – judging by the time and their speed, they went directly two levels down, where we’d been held,” he said. “Almost five minutes – they had enough time to reach the middle of that room. And it provides a lot of good spots to hide packages, endless rows of animal pens.”

“Those packages aren’t big enough to carry guns.” Nate was standing in front of the screens, eyes narrowed in concentration. “And Knudsen isn’t worried as much as he should be. His response time is long; he didn’t think he had to react immediately. That’s good.”

“And that tells us what?”

“That the guns aren’t in the mine, but in the slaughterhouse already. If he had one night to move several big containers and hide them, his men would've started immediately. He only had to remove these seven boxes, and it was simple enough. I’ll continue to watch this, Hardison, you can go back to the laboratories and DNR facilities.”

“After a break.” Hardison stretched and got up, glancing over the room, then went into the kitchen.

Eliot posted one more comment, and Florence continued the episode – the moment for eventual explanation had passed, she had closed herself again. Even if he tried to tell her something, it would be interrupted again, because Hardison came over to them after only one minute.

“Prepare yourself,” he said, sitting on the bed, and putting his legs on the shelf. “Parker is deciding about take-out, she’s going through fliers. It might be Chinese, or Mexican food.”

“And what about that needs to be prepared for?”

“She is making the order with a calculator in her hand, and she has half a paper full of different combinations,” Hardison grinned evilly. “Her decision to fatten you up like a pig shines in new light, when we remember we’re going into a slaughterhouse tonight, don’t you think?”

“You’re an idiot,” he grumbled, refusing to join in – Florence wouldn’t understand that kind of bickering, she twitched at Hardison’s words.

“Maybe, but I am _your_ idiot.” Hardison’s grin grew broader. The hacker leaned closer to peek at the laptop, to see what they were doing, and he couldn’t stop his own stiffening. He didn’t mind them entering his personal space – well, most of the time – but not now, when every touch could make him groan. When Hardison was in this awful busy mood, he could even expect a friendly slap on the shoulder. A neutral smile was usually a good way to cover up the automatic tensing and catching his breath, but it didn’t work this time – Hardison observed him with disturbing attentiveness behind that grin. It wasn’t different from their usual checking on him every fucking five minutes, he said to himself, returning a calm stare to him – it was just his paranoia nagging.

It lasted only two seconds, because the hacker glanced at the laptop again, and widened his eyes. “Florence,” Hardison said quietly. “Please tell me this isn’t Adam Baldwin in your episode.”

“He is, and he isn’t – it’s just a small flashback, only a few seconds in the entire fourth season.”

“Good.” Real relief was audible in Hardison’s voice. “Because if he is-”

“If you like him, you’ll see much more of him in the fifth season. This flashback was just an introduction to his character.”

“Fuck.” Hardison pulled back, and ran his hand over his face. They both looked at him wordlessly, waiting. “Now I understand,” he murmured at last. “It’s not Winslow’s sabotaging, it’s not Brewer’s decisions…damn, I should’ve known, I should’ve asked you at once, damn-”

“Hardison,” he growled a warning.

“If you got Season Six, and I must say, it’s now pretty questionable, you have to get rid of him,” Hardison said, pointing at the screen. Florence watched him in disbelief. “You think I’m kidding?! That man is death to your show, to every show – Florence, shows that Adam Baldwin touch _die_. That man is walking cancellation.”

“You’re joking, right?” she asked in amusement.

“I’ll tell you only two words. Firefly. Chuck. Kill him off in season six. And don’t cut anybody’s hair-” Hardison stopped, seeing the grimace that flew over her face. “You did?! You cut the hair of one of the _main_ characters in your last season? And you’re wondering why that one is the last?”

“Well, Buck had problems with bleached-”

“Ha!” Eliot said. “I knew it.” They both looked at him. “Never mind, go on.”

“You are inside of world of TV shows,” Hardison continued. “And you know everything about it. But, there are things that only true fans can see, observing from the outside, Florence. Listen to your people sometimes, they can tell you useful things. Do you know there’s a petition somewhere, to forbid Adam Baldwin from ever having a role on Dr. Who? Two million signatures. We _know_ things.”

Now she chuckled. “Okay, you _are_ joking.”

“Of course I am,” Hardison grinned, getting up. Then his smile vanished, and he turned around, quietly whistling the theme from The Twilight Zone while going back to the kitchen.

Eliot eyed the screen for a few seconds.

“What we have to do to get Baldwin on Supernatur-”

“Nope,” she raised a warning finger, but her eyes were still crinkled in a smile. “No killing Nielsen, Facebook, other shows… stop that. I like Supernatural.”

“They are beating our asses.”

“So be it. We’ll fight fair. Only that's important, dignity. Not winning or losing.”

Oops, Hardison was right when he used the fish to hide his scripts.

“You are aware that ‘fair’ is an amateurish expression, reserved only for trivial things?” he said carefully. “There’s no ‘fair’ in the game of life and death.”

“And what is there?” Her smile faded.

“Just honor. And you can keep your honor even when you’re not playing ‘fair’.”

She watched him for a few seconds; an unnervingly open stare.

“We have to continue the episode,” she said finally. He couldn’t agree more.

Yet, he used the end of the cursed Baldwin scene to quickly go to his group and bring to life a thread about Buck’s hair, with firsthand information.

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***

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Somebody found the diamond in a balloon at the best moment possible, right before the early evening news. They’d just finished the sixth episode, and he took a break, closing his eyes, when Parker’s squeeing stirred him. A reporter was holding a beautiful yellow diamond in front of the camera, and the excited finder was babbling in the background.

That made a significant storm through all the news, especially when experts confirmed its authenticity.

This time, Laura Flynn-Mullins asked for a phone interview with Brewer, but he refused to comment. In every broadcast, the main question was who was the mysterious sponsor behind the action. Florence had to put her phone on vibration to stop the constant ringing, and her twitter feed exploded. Trending, that’s what she called it, and she looked very pleased with that, whatever it was. Hardison was gloating, too – the two of them really shared the same weirdness. Geekiness. Whateverness.

The most interesting thing was watching Parker while she listened to the family who found her diamond – she watched them with narrowed eyes, studying their visible happiness while they talked about their lost jobs, hard times, and the hope that this brought into their life. She had a small, confused smile when they finished, but it was a smile, and that was important.

The only two people not showing any reaction to the diamond were Nate and Sophie; Nate was at the dining table with the laptop and papers again, and Sophie was reading a magazine. No… Sophie was _pretending_ to read the magazine.

Eliot split his attention when another episode started, checking on the grifter from time to time. She just stared into the magazine, not turning pages. Maybe he should really corner her and ask what was that thing that troubled her. He could recall their bathroom talk pretty accurately. She did distract him, directing him after Parker and Hardison, but she also admitted that the thing troubling her was something that _she_ had done That Night. And he sighed, knowing very well what that might be – it wouldn’t be a pleasant talk.

She probably felt his attention, no matter how he tried to hide his glances, because she stood up, throwing the magazine on the table, and came directly to the bed.

Her smile was soft and natural, and he automatically went into high alert. But Sophie didn’t even look at him, she looked at Florence’s laptop.

“This is going really good,” she said. “Though, I’ll need more help with sponsors tomorrow.”

“I can print you a full list,” Florence said, typing a reply. “Or, if you want it now…?”

“No time for that, I will – oh, dear.” Sophie reached her hand to Florence’s hair, pulling out a wood splinter. “You have more of it, maybe even glass. You should wash your hair before we go out. What do you think, Eliot?”

What the hell? What should he think about – he ignored their glances in his direction, quickly lowering his eyes to the laptop. “What?” he asked as if he didn’t follow their words.

“Ah, never mind,” Sophie smiled again. “Go now, Florence, before we start preparations for tonight,” she nudged her to get up. “And use the upper bathroom, so you can go through Nate’s closets and find something warm and waterproof for tonight.”

Florence looked really confused for a moment, then her face brightened. “Ah, you need to talk? Why didn’t you say so?”

“Just ten minutes dear. Thank you for your understanding.”

Florence waved her thanks off with a smile, and went away. In the moment she turned her back on them, before she even reached the stairs, Sophie’s smile faded.

“You sent her to wash her hair? She saw through you in two seconds. You’re losing touch, Sophie.”

“Is that so?” She titled her head. “Is she here? She would be, if I was convincing in ‘washing the hair speech’ – because we would still be talking, her trying to reassure me she doesn’t need it and why. This way, letting her guess at once I wanted to talk to you, she politely gave us space.”

“And what about coming here and telling her to move ‘cause you wanted to talk to me?”

“Ah, a girl has to practice.”

“You think the ten minutes will be enough?” He glanced to the stairs. “Maybe we should wait for a better time, unless the thing troubling you is nothing more than-”

“I’m not here to talk to _you_ ,” she cut off his words, her voice even. “I’m here to talk with Leverage Consulting and Associates. We have a problem. Will you please get up and join us at the dining table?”

She didn’t wait for his reply, she moved away, calling Hardison and Parker. He stopped the episode and sighed. This was unusual. If Sophie guessed he was hiding his shitty state, she would tell him that here. Calling an official meeting was just not her, her approach was always more private. Unless she gave up on pouring sense into him, and decided that collective bitching would be better.

Orion was nowhere to be seen, probably sleeping in the bags, but he took George nevertheless, knowing the cat would use the first minute of his absence, sleeping now or not.

He put George on the floor under the window, to catch a little light that was coming through the blinds, and took a counter stool for himself, resting his back against the counter. He thought that all of them would join Nate at the table, and he would have them all under him, but Parker took a chair next to him. On his right side. Just great – a bag of ice on his elbow was an irresistible invitation, and he prepared to slap her hand off… a couple dozen times.

He was right about one thing; Orion needed less than a minute to come to them.

In everything else, he was wrong.

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***

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Nate’s closets probably held every piece of wardrobe he ever used in a con – and few of them Florence hoped he didn’t use. One part of one closet was full of women clothes, another with different gears and ropes. His suits could dress her entire crew for ten seasons – all colors, all shapes, even one sky blue.

After rummaging around, she chose a vest – though she could wear it as a tunic, it was huge – and one dark leather jacket that must’ve been tight on him, but still was too big for her.

His hats were another surprise, but when she tried one, she didn’t look like Indiana Jones on a treasure hunt – she looked like Oliver Twist. No, definitely no hats.

She was almost ready to go down again, without washing her hair, when she saw something bright orange rolled up and stuck under old coats, and she pulled it out. She hoped it was a raincoat, but she found herself staring at the helmet with a visor. She was holding a hazmat suit.

She quickly tucked it in its place, and hurried to wash her hands. Knowing that Nate wouldn’t have a used hazmat suit among his clothes wasn’t as helpful as she thought it would be.

Only when she wiped her hands did she remember where the last time she'd seen hazmat suits mentioned – just a few days before this chaos started. In the breaking news about the state of emergency in Boston. It was something about a terrorist threat and viruses. Any other time she would just take that as a funny coincidence, but these people taught her that there was no such shit as coincidences. She locked the bathroom door and pulled out her phone, searching for articles. Massive Department of Homeland Security and Department of Defense action culminated with the 75th Ranger Regiment on the streets, barricades and lots of people in hazmat suits searching for virus threats. She quickly scanned through all the reports, went through analyses and summaries, until she finally found one interesting piece of info.

One of the casinos that were shut down was property of Don Lazzara. Her mouth went dry. She searched further, finding only info about the closed facilities, and found one short conspiracy theory. The writer made a crazy theory how the Government used its Departments illegally to shut down all the important gambling spots in town. The theory was insane, but one conclusion drew her attention - he stated that all the closed casinos were owned by different drug cartels.

She didn’t know whether she should scream or laugh. No, no government would be insane enough to try that – but she knew who would do it. Jesus, they _were_ insane. They fucking directed Homeland Security and the Department of Defense to deal with the cartels that were causing them trouble.

She sat on the toilet seat, clutching her phone, wondering what else she would find out, when a new, terrifying thought squeezed her stomach into a little, painful ball.

The People's Voice Awards.

She was bringing the Five Riders of the Apocalypse to the ceremony, full of world-famous actors, directors, stars. The whole world would watch it, live.

They put Boston in the state of emergency. Homeland Security danced as Nate directed. The Department of Defense did what Nate made them do.

She had a very, very bad feeling about Saturday night.

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***

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Parker didn’t even notice the ice pack, she looked directly in front of her, as if he wasn’t sitting just one foot away.

This had nothing to do with him, Eliot realized when Sophie took a chair and waited for Nate to raise his eyes from the laptop. Nate looked at Sophie, slightly confused, then at all of them around him.

“Something happening?” he asked.

“You could say that.” Sophie’s voice was calm, but Eliot could clearly hear the snapping of the acid bubbles right beneath the surface. Hardison, who naively sat with them at the table, when he heard her voice, got up and leaned against the shelf, leaving only the two of them sitting.

Nate leaned back in his chair and politely waited.

“What are you doing, Nate?”

“It would take too much time to answer that question,” he said calmly. “Try to narrow down the possible replies.”

“The Season Six Job,” Sophie said. Well, that was one more thing he didn’t expect to hear. “Are you going to tell Florence that Brewer and C4 are just part of the scenery in your play?”

Nate thought for a moment. “No,” he said.

“Are you going to tell her that _she_ is the Mark in the Season Six Job? That everything we're doing is just smoke screens, made for her?”

“No.”  This time, Nate smiled.

“What the hell are you doing?” Sophie whispered now.

“Making Brewer change his mind would be a variant of the White Rabbit,” Nate said. “That is not something you do in a few days, without thorough preparation – and even then, it’s not certain you’ll succeed. More or less, it’s futile even to think about him changing his mind.” Nate looked at them, one by one, completely serious. “It’s Thursday evening.  The PVA is Saturday night. We have two days, people, do you really think we can do anything except stir the surface a little?”

Sophie said no more, waiting.

“Let’s get this straight,” Eliot said when Nate showed no sign he would continue. “You’re conning Florence to think this will work? And you know it won’t? Why on earth did I have to get on Facebook then?”

“Oh, it’s not irrelevant, far from that. Just like tomorrow’s doings connected to Season Six are equally important. The only difference is…” Nate thought for a second. “…every step we take until the PVA, are at the same time parts of several different plans, not just one.”

“What’s your real plan?” Sophie asked.

“I’m doing the Siren’s Song,” Nate finally sighed. “That’s the only thing that might – might – give her a sixth season.”

“What the hell is a Siren’s Song?” Hardison asked wearily.

Nate looked at him, then shrugged. “I don’t know,” he said simply. “It’s not a name; it’s more an explanation. I’ll know what that was only if it worked, not before.”

The silence after his words was so deep that they all heard the bathroom door upstairs opening. Without a word, they all scattered.

Eliot went to the bed.

Then he returned to pick up George.

He remembered how satisfied he was when Nate had said that he was working on all the plans at the same time – that was always a sign that shit was nasty, but it was getting solved. Now, he didn’t know what to think about this – except that he didn’t like how it sounded. He didn’t like the serious note in Nate’s voice.

Florence returned to her chair, but he exchanged the last messages with the Las Vegas crew, and turned the episode off. He couldn’t concentrate on that right now.

“Something wrong?” she asked quietly.

The light through the blinds was fading, and the distant thunder sounded like an explosion.

“Just tired,” he managed to smile. The smile that she returned was as false as his; he averted his eyes from her and pretended to watch the mine feed on the big screens. The images were blurry and gray and they moved without any detail, as fast as his thoughts were jumping and bouncing from wall to wall.

The forgotten ice pack on his elbow sent shivers through him, and he threw it on the floor, pulling the blanket higher. A few minutes of rest would chase away that chill from his bones. Concentrating on his heartbeat should slow it down – every beat was a sharp cut in his chest. And every beat was one second, too. He couldn’t slow time down. He couldn’t follow, he couldn’t keep pace with everything around him.

Finally he gave up and closed his eyes, listening to the steady whisper of rain.

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*

 

 

 


	40. Chapter 40

Chapter 40.

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***

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Florence knew they were talking about their actions and plans when she was away. One part of her completely understood why Nate refused to tell her any details about anything, because it was really better for her to know as little as possible; they were criminals and their actions were all against the law. The other part was pissed off, and maybe slightly hurt.

They all continued with their jobs, doing as much, and as fast as they could before going out, and only Eliot slowed down. She sneaked away when he stopped and closed his eyes, hoping he would sleep; though, passing out would be better. That would tell the others that something was wrong, without her saying a word. But her hope only lasted a few minutes; he opened his eyes the same moment Nate called Bonnano and arranged a quick drink in McRory’s. They would discuss tomorrow’s action, she knew that. She also knew she was deeply messed up when her first thought was to plant a bug in his pocket. _Damn criminals and their influence_.

She went to Sophie and gave her the list of sponsors for her show. The grifter’s questions were strange. She obviously couldn’t get the concept, she asked her about the exact amounts of money, and what was in it for the sponsors. She explained the best she could, using Hyundai as an example, she even showed her the car scenes where the logo was visible, but it was useless. Sophie asked, confused, how any sponsor could calculate their benefit. So she explained again. After that, Sophie just shrugged, left the list and took up the magazine again, so that was it. Clearly, one more dead end.

The next stage was curling up on the sofa and closing her eyes. Maybe it wasn’t the right time to begin a confused mental review of all the shit that was happening, but she had to do it. Her head was about to explode. Too much of everything.

She was used to feeling pressure, and this rush around her was the natural surroundings of a TV writer – writer’s room, shooting, all the mess with production, delays, problems, deadlines. It was exciting and she enjoyed it, most of the time. The problem with _this_ situation, apart from being deadly, were feelings. She couldn’t believe that a human being could feel so many different emotions without going insane – fear, confusion, worry, hope, more fear with a touch of dread, shock, excitement, discouragement… she could go on and on. The conflicting emotions were the worst. She felt protected and in deadly danger, skeptical and trusting, angry and apathetic, energized and empty.

How the hell could she still be trembling from the sniper, and feel excited about the dress? _You’re heading toward a nervous breakdown_.  She would just snap at something, just like that, _and there goes her mind, goodbye_.

She sighed and sank deeper in the sofa. Sophie and Parker returned to their phone calls to the networks; the channels were chirping their reports; Hardison was frantically typing in the chair near her; Eliot was arguing with Nate.

It seemed that the only sane person in this room was George.

Nate finally left – and literally ran, she understood that completely - and the noise level lowered.

“McRory’s is full of cops,” Hardison said when Eliot passed by them going back to the bed. “And Patrick will be there, too. Cops are swarming the street, no sane mobster would come close. Let him be.”

A low growl was the only answer. Hardison sighed and pulled surveillance cameras on the screens. “Here, we’ll see everything. We don’t have a camera in the bar, but here’s the street, and corridor, and entrance… you can go in at the first sign of danger.”

“It’s the principle, Hardison – don’t split up the group if not necessary. Patrick could come up.”

“I don’t think Nate is too eager to explain all those bullet holes. When he asked for a cover story, he didn’t tell him what the trigger for it was.”

“Whatever.”

Well, it didn’t sound like their continued watching her episodes would be a pleasant experience, Florence thought. But that was maybe even better. She uncurled herself and dragged herself to her place by the bed.

She had nineteen new messages on her phone, hundreds of tweets and emails, and all of that in the last half an hour. She couldn’t force herself to touch any of it, she just sat there blindly staring at everything waiting to be done.

Was the urge to cry because of things moving too fast and becoming overwhelming an effect of intense fear?

Eliot cleared his throat and she slowly raised her eyes to look at him.

“It’s called shell shock,” he said. “It’s a normal reaction after this kind of shooting. It’ll pass. Unless you’re going to be catatonic – that would mess up the PVA Ceremony.”

This wasn’t mind reading like Nate and Sophie did – he read her body language. What was Hardison reading? Her brain activity in impulses and numbers?

Why wasn't he in shock? Probably because he'd went through much worse… a few minutes of machine gun fire was a normal thing. And what the hell was she supposed to say now? And why were all her thoughts in question form? That was annoying.

Maybe she was just tired. Her night had been full of nightmares, and she only slept a few hours.

“You stopped babbling,” he said, frowning. “No – you still babble, but inside. That’s not smart. Shutting down after traumatic things can get out of control.”

“When I babble, you stop me,” she said with effort.

Now he smiled. “Only when you talk so fast that I can’t follow. Now, we have a little more time before we go out – watch the episode with me. You don’t have to talk, just concentrate on that.”

That sounded easy enough, so she nodded and pulled her chair closer.

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***

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One hour later Nate was still at McRory’s, and Florence could see Eliot’s anxiety rising with every glance to the surveillance cameras. This waiting was making them all nervous, she noticed that in herself; midnight seemed too far away. They had something nasty ahead them – and she knew better than the rest of them how nasty it would be – and waiting was torturous.

They both watched the episode without really seeing it, and that was ridiculous.

“Why don’t you just go down to the bar and check if everything is all right?” she said when he paused the episode to rub his eyes, using that move to relax his stiff shoulders. It had been a long day, and he would’ve been very tired by now even if nothing happened.

He started the episode again and she thought he wouldn’t answer, but he stopped it again after a few seconds. “Too many cops in the bar. It’s not wise to show my face so close to That Night…. They were…” his voice faltered as he thought. “The entire Boston police force had my description – Bonnano made sure I was described as a runaway, severely delusional patient who ought to be taken back to Mass Gen as soon as possible. Most of them, as the Night went by, figured out the connection between that and the cartel shootings, but not all of them.”

“So if they caught you That Night, you only had to act as if you were delusional, and they wouldn’t arrest you, just take you back to the hospital?”

“I didn’t have to _act._ ” He didn’t look at her, still watching the frozen image on the screen. “One of the side effects of a morphine overdose is psychosis. Hallucinations, voices, that kind of shit. It takes time to clear that out and get back to normal.” Now he looked at her, and smiled. “But, it’s going well.”

At first she thought this was another ‘scare Florence with a monster’ speech, but no, this time he tried to diminish it, _not_ to scare her. Being shocked by the shooting clearly had its advantages.

“Is there any reason to be worried about Nate?

“I’m not worried, I’m annoyed. He didn’t take his earbud.” He typed something while speaking, so she could observe him freely for a few seconds. Maybe he should go down to the bar, nevertheless, to see if he was able to make that distance at all. She was half ready to suggest that, when she realized it wouldn’t make any difference, he would still go to the slaughterhouse, able to or not. And he really didn’t look worried about all that, so maybe her fear was unfounded. Or maybe not. He was pale all the time, but now it was ghostly hue that made the dark shadows around his eyes more visible, and his eyes were glazed and drained.

“I’ll give him half an hour more,” he said. “Now, the episode. Stop thinking about anything else, just watch it.”

She swallowed all the words she was about to say and nodded. It was easier that way.

But she couldn’t stop thinking .

They were here because he opened the door a few nights ago, and helped her. She could count all the later steps that led to this, too, but that initial one was burning her heart out. Her self-control was so damn fragile right now, that it took only that thought to tighten her throat. Damn, this episode was funny, there was nothing in it that would justify her crying, she couldn’t blame it on that. It would be great if this stupid urge to cry every five minutes continued further – how long could the shock last, anyway?

He shifted uncomfortably, leaning back into the pillows, and she knew she was annoying him now as well; there was no way he didn’t notice her change in mood or her watery eyes. The only way to hide something from them was to wear that hazmat suit she found, but even then, they would see something in the way she walked.

Blinking away the tears only made it worse.

“You should stop that,” he said, turning off the episode. She looked at him, surprised; he didn’t sound annoyed, more upset, “or at least, try to get yourself together before we go. There’ll be no time for crying, we have work to do.” In spite of his effort to sound gruff, she saw in his eyes the same uncertainty she saw when he almost kissed her. _That_ got her together in a blink of an eye.

“Just ignore it,” she quickly said, diverting her mind onto something else with effort. “You said yourself it’s a reaction, so I’ll just wait for it to pass. Don’t worry about the mine, it’ll be all right by then. And start the episode, we have to watch it. One more now, and then I’ll go sort all my messages, to be ready to go.” She sounded normal and coherent, so he nodded.

Third try, the episode started again.

Maybe she should try the ‘grand grand aunt thinking’ all the time, not just when running away from them – now was definitely the best time for that. She held her glaze steady on the scenes that played, with a poker face and even breathing.

He almost killed her. He almost kissed her. To be honest, she wasn’t sure which was more disturbing. No, fuck that, she _knew_. She didn’t dare glance at him not even once, suddenly realizing a completely new dimension of her little hormone storm. Ignoring her own inept desire wasn’t easy even when the man was out of her reach… but now, when she saw his reaction – and that tremble of his fingers on her face she would never forget - it intensified everything. Attraction, when going both ways, multiplied.

And what if she just kissed him, and get it over with? Would this shit stop then? _Right, sure_.

An exasperated sigh from the left stirred her. “Okay, that’s it.” The poor episode died for the fourth time. “I’ll call Sophie, I swear, you’re going up and down too fast. What’s so funny only a minute after you almost cried?”

She should _definitely_ tell him what she was thinking. She bit off a chuckle she didn’t notice emerging. Her poker face was obviously a very lousy performance.

“My inner babbling,” she said lightly. “I was entertaining myself – it isn’t like I don’t know how the episode will end. I have to fight the need to spoil the ending for you for every episode we watch. I’m evil.”

“Evil?” he rolled his eyes. “You are as evil as, as…”

She watched him trying to find the word, knowing why he stuttered – his choice of comparison might tell her too much. He finally just shook his head, and turned the episode on. “Oscillate one more time, and I _will_ call her.” The threat sounded like a threat, in a low, dark voice, but she could recognize a tone in it – she heard it when he growled at Parker, seemingly pissed off. Now she knew better.

She also became aware of how synchronized they were, tuned in to one another, noticing everything, every tiny change in mood. And it felt so natural, so…right, to be aware of him all the time, with one sensor always turned in his direction. Now more than ever, when she was afraid for him. When she searched for every treacherous sign that he was getting worse. They had – they created – their own small bubble inside this bigger one.

Fighting that was useless. Her only hope was that it would stop, fade away when she was gone.

“Are you having any problems with that episode you’re watching?” Sophie’s voice came out of nowhere. It would be very strange that she _didn’t_ notice that they weren’t able to move past the opening credits.

“Yep.”

“Nope.”

She glared at him. Sophie politely waited.

“It’s not the episode,” he explained. “She can’t concentrate on anything, and goes from crying to smiling in three seconds. Do something.”

“And why is that a problem?”

He tilted his head and she clearly saw the moment when the slightly uncomfortable man was replaced by the hitter. “Because we can’t take her to the slaughterhouse if she can’t put some order in her behavior.”

Sophie nodded, but then she smiled at him. “You should know, of all the people, that dealing with stressful things can’t be done on command.”

“I’ll be fine,” she jumped in before he could say anything. “I have occasional attacks of sniffling, but I’ll be okay.”

He looked somewhere between them, probably at the screens on the wall. “You might be right,” he said. “In fact, if I know anything about women, you’ll be completely fine in five…four… three… two…”

Her phone rang.

She quickly turned around to see what he saw on the screens; Vivian was standing on the street in front of their building with a phone in her hand, with a delivery boy who was carrying a large package with even larger Louis Vuitton logo on it. She stopped a squeak – he already had a smirk on his face, and it would become an obnoxiously smug one – and answered the phone.

“Yes, I’m here, you can come up – thank you for coming, Vivian. I know we had to go through the final changes but I simply couldn’t find the time for that.”

“I don’t have to ask if this middle aged blond woman is really Vivian, or a disguised mafia killer?” Eliot asked, nodding to Hardison to open the building door. Though he spoke lightly, his eyes were quickly scanning all the other surveillance cameras, checking for trouble that might come up with their visitors.

“If she is carrying my dress, she could be both, I don’t care,” she jumped to her feet, resisting the urge to grin at him. He shook his head, looking at both her and Sophie with a puzzled grimace.

“Leave the rest of us out of it,” he muttered, opening the laptop again. “And don’t forget we have to go out, at some point.”

She exchanged a grin with Sophie.

“Well, sweetie,” the grifter purred at him. “Now you’ll see the full impact of distracting powers at work. Just stay here, safely tucked in the bed, out of our way, and you won’t get hurt.”

They both turned around, leaving him. His last quiet words sounded as if he mentioned joining Nate at the bar, and something else about women and dresses in general.

It was pity that Vivian didn’t come earlier to lift her mood. And everyone’s mood, too. Distractions were useful. And in spite of the gruff comments, she didn’t sense any real annoyance in his voice – he also knew that cooing over the dress was a perfect way to fill the waiting.

The doorbell rang and she went to open the door.

“Good evening Florence,” Vivian said.

“Good evening, Ma’am.” Eliot’s voice came from just one step behind her and both she and Sophie turned to him, surprised. He smiled, took one last step to them, and then – with the same smile – shoved Sophie into Vivian with a violent thrust that knocked them both off their feet.

Two screams melted into one as they flew back into the corridor; Florence just gasped, horrified.  The delivery boy took one step back, dropping the package, with horror in his eyes. “Have you lost your mind-” her scream was cut off when he moved past her, casting her aside out his way. She whirled in one step, bewildered, and took one shaky breath to scream at Eliot, to stop him before he reached the boy – oh, Jesus, he _did_ lose his fucking mind – but then she saw what the boy held in his hands.

Eliot hauled the gun up at the last second, and bullets flew up, drilling holes in the wall and ceiling. She could swear she heard bones cracking when he thrust the hand with the gun down and into the wall. She saw no more – Hardison was there all of a sudden. He pushed her toward the door and quickly pulled Sophie and Vivian up, herding all three of them into the apartment.

She turned around once more, but she saw nothing, the door slammed shut in front of her face.

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***

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What if, what if, what if.

He wasn’t usually the one who would ponder upon all that might’ve happened, but this time the time frame was so tight that the fear struck just when everything was finished. Hardison also looked shaken; the hacker had realized what was going on just a second after him.

“This was, this was-” Hardison shook his head and stopped.

“Yep,” he sighed, unable to form any longer word. The wall behind his back was a cold and friendly support.

Parker’s head emerged from the crack in the door. She grinned and pushed the handcuffs into Hardison’s hands, disappearing again.

“Right,” Hardison murmured. “Good idea.” He cuffed the fallen attacker and pushed the gun down the corridor. Eliot was sure he'd heard a few clicks of an empty magazine, but he had no strength to check. Not even to tell the hacker to check.

“He won’t be going anywhere for a long time, but we have to get you in the apartment. C’mon.”

He was perfectly fine right here, thank you. He straightened his face into blank emptiness, trying to look twice as good as he felt. He couldn’t figure out how he would behave after this if he didn’t fuck up the wound again, what would be normal, so he just gave up. He let Hardison guide him to the door; he saw his hand gripping his left upper arm, but he couldn’t feel the touch. The pain numbed everything else.

The apartment was blurry and spinning, yet he clearly saw Vivian drinking Jack directly from the bottle. They all sat at the dining table, and he found himself sitting there too, without quite knowing how he got there. Good thing Hardison knew not to take him to the bed.

What if.

Four damn seconds, and all three women at the door would be dead.

“Stop,” he said. Sophie paused her quick, quiet talk to Vivian. “Hardison, get me my phone.”

A brief silence at the table gave him a few more seconds to get it together; sitting helped, too.

Parker pushed a green marzipan ball in front of him.

He wondered if their eyes were this big all the time, or just now, while staring at him. The phone came before he could decipher that.

He pressed the speed dial, glancing at the almost empty bottle. “Nate,” his voice was almost normal when the line clicked on. “Are you coming up? Can you bring a bottle… no, two bottles of Jack with you? Good, great. What?” he looked at the others. “Anything else we need?” They all shook their heads. “No, nothing else. Except Patrick. Bring Bonnano with you, too. We had a little…accident. Precisely, fifteen little accidents.” One click, and the line went dead.

“He hung up on me,” he said, looking at the phone with sincere surprise.

Sophie poured some Jack in a glass and put it in his hand.

“Drink that,” she said with steel in her voice. “Now.”

There were only three ways to argue with Sophie Devereaux. As far as he knew, neither worked. He sipped the alcohol, and surprisingly, it sent a little warmth through him.

“How did you know they took Vivian as bait?” Sophie asked.

“The door bell,” he said. Four seconds, four fucking heartbeats between the ringing and Florence opening the door. If he was concentrating on the episode, he would’ve missed that. If he was slower… if he hesitated, thinking if he was right or not… if…. He took one more sip to stop the shiver he felt deep inside.

“That’s not an explanation,” Florence whispered.

“She called you,” Hardison jumped in, and he was grateful for that. “I opened the building door and they came up. And they rang _our_ apartment door, Florence. Not yours. That guy was guiding her, knowing you were here. She couldn’t know that, you didn’t tell her.”

“There were two of them,” Vivian said, nodding. “One chased away my delivery boy, this one took his place. He said he would kill me if I acted unusual.”

Nate and Patrick burst into the room before they could ask any more questions.

And Nate had a warm smile on his face. He went directly to Vivian. “Well, isn’t it such a nuisance? I’m so sorry you got involved in this, dear Miss – we are Mrs. McCoy’s PR agency, and this is Detective Captain Bonnano, he is in charge of her case. He will escort you from the crime scene and make sure you don’t get involved. Can we count on your discretion? Mrs. McCoy has received threats from those deranged fans for some time, and this is the first time they showed themselves. You’re in the fashion business, you know how scandals can ruin careers – and you don’t want your dress to be connected with something like this on the PVA ceremony, right?”

How the hell did he know who she was? _Package in the hall_ , Eliot answered his own question.

Vivian sighed, looking at Florence. “Of course, I understand. I didn’t know you were-”

Patrick took over with his best charming smile, helping the older woman on her feet. “Come with me, we shall speed up all the boring paperwork, so you won’t have to lose time.” He herded her in front of him, and in a few seconds full of typical police authority talk, they both disappeared.

Just then, Nate’s smile faded.

“His guys from the bar will pick up the guy and-”

Hardison gasped and bolted to his feet, hurrying after Bonnano. He returned with the package.

“It would take too much time if we had to snatch it from the evidence room,” he explained, grinning at Florence’s grateful smile.

Eliot put both of his hands on the table, taking one deep breath, for a change. “Nate,” he said quietly. “What the hell just happened? Knudsen saw through the being surrounded by police in only a few hours, and managed to find her designer at the same time?”

“No, I think this is just a lucky… delayed mine, that we stepped on accidentally. Dvorak Security is deep in the TV business, in C4, as the security they know everything. They have insight into every connection and every event. Knudsen knew for a long time that Florence is going to the PVA, and everything connected to that. He probably got someone a few days ago to warn him when she contacted Vivian about the dress, and forgot to cancel that after the police reported the dead in the sniper attack. When his mole told him she called Vivian, it surely came as surprise to him, but he reacted immediately. And almost succeeded.” He sighed and took the bottle, pouring a drink for himself. “This is strange,” he continued slowly. “Dealing with a mark without actual _dealing_ with the mark. I didn’t have a chance even to speak to him yet. But I can tell you, he is now alert, curious and very entertained. The game is on, again. Boy, that man loves to plot.”

“You are aware that Dvorak Security is deep in the core of the PVA Ceremony?” Hardison asked. “All of them will be there – an event that size and security rating will have the FBI too. We’ll be going directly into their hands. We might take Knudsen down tomorrow, and his mine with him – but we can’t do it with his security business.”

Nate bit his lip. “Yep, I’m aware of that. It’ll be an interesting game of hide and seek.”

That was enough talk for now. Eliot slowly got up. “We are going out now,” he said. “No waiting for midnight, there’s no point in that. Get ready.”

Any delaying would just exhaust him further, he had to do it now or never.

“You’re right,” Nate nodded, giving a sign to others to start packing. But he still sat, not moving, just watching him.

“About that PVA ceremony and all that mess…” Eliot said, hesitating. “I’m not sure if you are exaggerating or taking it too lightly.”

Nate’s smile was empty. “Neither do I.”

 

*


	41. Chapter 41

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're Musophobiac, be careful when reading.

 

Chapter 41

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***

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Eliot managed to endure the entire drive to the slaughterhouse without saying a single word. He successfully climbed all stairs without raising any suspicion, all of them were occupied with things and stuff and quiet arrangements, not even once glancing in his direction. At first, he headed to his dark corner behind the driver’s seat but Nate waved him to take the passenger’s seat. It wasn’t the best solution if he wanted to avoid any attention. Again, he didn’t have to worry. Nate kept his eyes strictly on the road, silent, occupied with his own thoughts. Nate probably knew who was the only one who wouldn’t try to talk to him and who would welcome the silence as well, and that was the _only_ reason he had to sit up-front. No need to worry, he said to himself again.

After their talk about the PVA Ceremony, Nate had told him only three words: Don’t. Just. Don’t. followed with a warning finger. He was only standing in front of George, thinking what to do with him, he _wasn’t_ thinking of bringing him with them. That thought occurred only after Nate’s reaction, to be honest. There wasn’t anything like _don’t bring your plant to work day_. It wasn’t as if George took so much space, so Lucille would be crowded because of him, and not six people.

He thought about locking George in the bathroom downstairs, but it was undignified. The only secure place was the top of the fridge, but it was impossible for him to put him that high, and asking for help was out of question. Climbing the stairs to hide him somewhere would take too much time and they were already waiting for him, and he simply had to leave him alone with Orion.

At least nobody commented on his dragging the plant all over the room while they packed, if Sophie’s smile wasn’t some sort of unspoken comment.

It seemed that he was finally able to breathe more freely, their collective surveillance loosened up a bit. He was lucky that it happened when he needed it the most, as if they asked when the best time to give him more space was.

Or, maybe, they just tried not to see too much of George.

Nate turned the heat in Lucille to maximum without him asking for it, and that helped with the coldness he couldn’t get rid of. Relaxed sitting in the seat brought shivers, so he crossed his arms to hide it, finding the position that would lock his arm and not press too much on his chest. Nate kept his eyes on the road.

He wore Nate’s jacket, because Florence somehow managed to take _his_ jacket from Nate’s closets, the only one that was there, of all jackets she could choose from. She also wore his beanie again. There wasn’t any fucking way he could say anything about it when he saw that in the apartment, it would trigger one more strange reaction if she thought he was talking about her hair, and not the thing that covered it. Especially now, when she was so distraught with everything.  So he said nothing, except low, intelligible grumbling. For a witty TV writer, she was extremely lousy in catching the messages. Confused blinking was the only answer. At least she didn’t start crying again. He tried to remember if there were some similar situations in her episodes, but there nobody snatched nobody’s clothes, so he couldn’t make any allegory. The only situation that he could use was one quarrel about who would take which weapon, but when he mentioned that, it only reminded her of a shotgun, so she simply went away to nag to Nate about the necessity of having a shotgun, leaving him jacketless and beanieless.

Sophie, _again, dammit_ , saw the problem and brought him another jacket. He was _very_ happy with her light smile that seemed permanently carved into her face.

The last fifteen minutes of the drive were full of Hardison’s nagging about his staying in Lucille, but he was the only choice. Somebody had to keep track of all cameras, and their communication. There wasn’t anything to hack in the slaughterhouse.  Just this time, in the hacker’s usual nagging he could feel one deeply upset note, and his objections actually made sense.

In fact, they all quietly nagged in the back of Lucille, except Parker. She was thrilled with going out after two whole days of immobility, and her chirping was driving him nuts. _Two_ days, seriously? Unbearable, was it? She brought the entire bowl of marzipan balls with her, and their nagging was accompanied with chewing. Fucking field trip.

Florence was another problem. He couldn’t understand why Sophie hadn’t done anything to sort her out – after Vivian’s accident that followed the sniper too close, that woman was a wreck. The wacko wreck with weird reactions, going from giggling to crying before Hardison could say single-ended and triode class-A amplifiers.

“We have to take her with us,” he broke the silence when Nate went onto the small forest road behind the slaughterhouse, trying to find a safe place to stop. “If we let her stay in the van, we will find her after three days somewhere in Vermont. She’s a loose cannon now.”

“Which one?” Nate sighed, glancing at the rear mirror. Florence and Sophie were deep in a quick _silk-pearls-red carpet-Jimmy Choos- and Jesus, I have no idea what to do with my hair_ exchange, with lots of gestures, and Parker, mouth full of marzipan, was torturing Hardison with a thorough explanation of the importance of the fifth knot on the seventh rope while on the nineteenth floor, or something like that.

“Right,” he said. “Can _we_ stay in the van?”

Another sigh was a clear answer, so he said nothing more.

On top of all that shit and in spite of his freezing, he could feel the cold sweat on his forehead. That wasn’t good, but it was expected after reopening the wound; fever was about to follow.

He lowered his head, letting the hair fall over his face, and prayed that he would have enough time to reassure Betsy she didn’t have to come tomorrow morning.

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***

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“And now, hurry,” Hardison said, watching them from the van. They all gathered in the darkness, with lamps, Parker burdened with unknown – and probably unspeakable – things in a bag on her back. Sophie and Florence chuckling. Nate still silent, looking deeply depressed. He was pissed off, hurting, annoyed, cold, shivering, tired, pissed off, annoyed, pissed off, angry and annoyed, worried, angry and pissed off and…“You have to reach the cover before the rain starts again, or your earbuds will be destroyed. Fortunately, there won’t be any rain for the next three hours. Use it.”

They made only fifty steps from the van when a wild shower lashed at them, pouring the entire river on their heads. The earbuds died with a sorrowful meow.

He was so pissed off that he recited an entire speech to Hardison before Nate tapped him on the head, reminding him he was speaking into a dead comm.

Parker’s grin was ghostly bluish in the light of one lamp they were using. She pushed something in his hand and tapped him. If _anybody_ tapped him again, he swore he would – he looked at the squashy, wet marzipan that stuck to his fingers like glue, melting all over, and tried to shut his brain off.

Fucking field trip.

They had to go through the thickest part of the wood and come to the fence from the back side. The last time he was sleep-walking that part, and just now he saw it was a good piece of walk. In his blurred memory this part lasted fifteen seconds, and the road was suddenly there – he forgot to check how much, exactly, he would have to walk.

Careful walking in the apartment was something completely different from this; mud, protruding roots, piles of wet leaves, stones, bushes, everything was messing the rhythm of his steps. A too fast heartbeat throbbed in his chest.

He could endure pain. He knew how. This was nothing. But he was weak, his body unable to follow his mind, and he didn’t have enough air, no matter how fast he breathed. The rain made no difference in his freezing, yet it hid the treacherous sweat on his face. One thing less to worry about.

Parker was first, she knew the way, Sophie and Florence followed. He kept himself just one step behind them. Nate walked at the end of the line, with a flashlight, keeping the light low, pointed at their legs to light the way. His silent presence was making him nervous, but all three times he stopped to let him pass, Nate just waved him to continue, staying close behind him.

He wrapped his right arm around the chest, shielding both, reducing any involuntary move, and tried not to stumble.

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***

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He stopped them all when Parker found an opening in the fence. The slaughterhouse rose in front of them, dark and blurry in the rain. The last five minutes Nate had shut the light off, and the only light came from the mine, a few hundred meters away. Huge reflectors were lit in the center of the complex, and one for every parking lot, but the slaughterhouse was shielding them, covering them with the darkness. Above the forest was a slightly orange hued sky over Boston, far away. Rain drops carried some of that light, and the darkness wasn’t impenetrable.

Nobody saw he was clutching the wire fence, his fingers like hooks, steadying him upright.

“Put your phones on vibration,” Nate whispered. “I’ll call Hardison.”

In the moment Nate made a call, all their phones vibrated.

“I made a separate conference call, if I have to tell you all something urgent,” Hardison said. “If you want the same, press nine on speed dial. I have your positions – we are close so I can see where you are, with a few meters error. The earbuds still send GPS signal, though they ain’t working as comms. All cameras are working, too, and everything is clear, there’s nobody in there. The last patrol made a circle and went back half an hour ago, but they don’t have regular time of rounds, no means to know when they’ll come again. They were more than twenty minutes in the slaughterhouse, so that means they checked all stories. I’ll call you when I see them leaving the mine again, you’ll have enough time to retreat or avoid them.”

“How many people are in the patrol?”

“It varies. The last time there were three of them, the one before five. If the rain continues, maybe just two in the next round, or one. But the rain won’t continue, this shower was just unhappy chance, it’ll stop any minute now, I can guarant-”

A deafening thunder blast almost blinded them, striking the huge dredging machines in the mine. Even this far, the wire fence buzzed for a second, and Eliot quickly let it go shaking his hand to stop the tickling in his fingers. The reflectors in the mine flickered. And died. Darkness fell on them heavier than rain.

“You guarantee? Really?” Nate vented one exasperated sigh.

“Uhm, guys…” Hardison’s voice came through the cracking static sounds. “I have good news, and bad news. Good news – cameras are still working. Bad news – I can’t see anything on them in the darkness, they don’t have any source of light.”

“Motion detectors?” Nate asked.

“They react on what they see, they’re not real motion detectors. I can’t warn you when they come. You’re going blind.”

“Not completely. We’ll send a scout,” Nate turned to Parker. She followed his eyes, up and up, to the fourth story and tall silos behind them, and her grin flashed in the pale light of her phone.

Eliot almost choked. “Nate, no! She won’t see shit, and the lightning will fry her like a-“

“Parker, do you have any problems with the possibility of being struck by lightning?” Nate asked officially, as if he expected any answer beside-

“That’s so cool.” Her eyes reflected the light, burning. “A thief chips.”

“Parker, don’t climb the silos,” Eliot continued quickly. “There are five, and two of them are leaning on each other, everything can collapse. One of them goes right behind the second underground level, and it’s connected with it with giant pipes full of rotten cattle food. _Everything_ is rotten and unstable. Go to the roof, it’ll be enough.”

“Do what he said,” Nate nodded. “The center of the storm is coming to us – seriously, Hardison, what weather report have you been listening to, anyway?”

“Hey! That’s nature, dude, I don’t do nature, it’s… unnatural.”

“-intervals between the lightning and the thunder are shorter. Parker, wait for lightnings, they’ll give you enough light to see the road between the mine and the slaughterhouse, and spot the patrol.”

“On it,” she turned around and disappeared.

 “You should leave Sophie and Florence there, where they can retreat to the woods in a second, if necessary,” Hardison said.

“No,” Nate was adjusting his jacket. “The same reason we didn’t leave Florence in the van; Hardison, you’re not enough for protection if Lucille is found. I don’t want her too far away from Eliot, or from me. We had to bring her with us, which isn’t the wisest thing in these circumstances, but leaving her here within the mobster’s reach, alone, is out of question. Besides, we are on a treasure hunt, not in a fight – two more pairs of eyes will speed this up. All right now, call us if some new fuckup comes our way, okay?” Nate ended the call, and waved his hand to him to go. “And speed is crucial now, so lead the way, Eliot. You’re the only one who was inside, on the lower levels.”

“You chose the right person for speed,” he said, eyeing the ominous structure that hovered above them. Huge ramps that went out from the dark openings into the ground in the front looked like giant tongues sticking out, and dead windows above them reflected the lightnings.

Herds of animals had been going up those ramps into the slaughterhouse, never to come out again.

He sighed, and led them towards the entrance.

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***

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“No, no, no and no, you can’t be serious!” Florence stood as a barrier in front of them, light flickering on her face. They were by the big, squeaky door that led to the main staircase climbing to the lower levels, and she was blocking the way. “It’s almost as bad as high heels, you just don’t-“

“What damn high heels!?” Eliot growled, his patience deep below zero level, but she, again, didn’t get the message. “Step aside – and by the way, I’ve told you already to never go before me. Stay back. What high heels?”

“We can’t split, that’s insane! Have you ever watched any decent show on TV?” her whisper rose uncontrollably. “We’re in the slaughterhouse, for crying out loud, we are going into the basement, enemies are about to come, and you want to split us in two groups? The only worse thing than that would be if you showed us a picture of your fiancée before going into a shooting!”

He stared at her, stupefied. “I don’t have a fucking fiancée - you make no sense… what shooting?”

“A guy who shows that pic at the beginning of any war movie is the one who will die first. It’s the same as splitting the group up in _ruins_. It’s the sign that the attack will soon start and if you’re in a horror movie, all of them will die. Blonds first. I’m blond.”

“You’re creepy. Sophie, do something.”

“Well, dear, she got the point. Some sort of point. In traces.”

“Jesus,” he rubbed his eyes and moved the wet hair falling over his face, trying to calm down. “Look, imminent danger, and anticipated danger ain’t the same thing,” he said in decently reasonable voice. “We only expect them to come, and we have two stories to search. We can do both at the same time, if we split up, and it will reduce our time by twelve minutes. Parker will warn us if she sees them, and we’ll gather again and leave on time. And we are still in the ‘anticipated danger’ zone. Splitting up may mean avoiding the ‘imminent danger’ completely.”

“Don’t tell me I didn’t warn you.” She stepped aside, frowning at him while he opened the door, making as little noise as he could.

“Thank you – ‘cause I have no idea what to do in a search party without input from TV shows written by-“ he snapped his mouth shut.

“Written by? Say it, c’mon, just say it!” she hissed. “I do my research! I never write about anything I haven’t studied all over, and my data-“

“Guys, guys-“ Nate’s calm voice stopped her. “We can discuss that topic when we get back. Eliot, I’ll take the first level below ground, you take the second. It’s bigger, but you’ve been there and you have some idea where the things could be hidden.”

He nodded. “Okay. Keep in mind, just in case, that staircase is not the only exit. If anything happens, on the opposite end of every level, Parker found holes in the walls and collapsed rooms – that’s the other way out. It won’t take long to find it with flashlights.”

He entered the dark stairs, metal with metal railings. He didn’t remember how stable this part was. The first time he was dragged, and when he was leaving, he was disorientated.

“Be careful,” he whispered, looking down into the dark pitch. “The roof is half destroyed, and with broken windows and holes in the walls, rain could soak everything. Mind your steps.”

“You know what rain means in the ‘let’s search ruins one by one so they can kill us easy’ sort of scenario?”

“No, Florence, please, _do_ share,” he said with heavenly patience.

“It means we will end up in an underground wild stream and end up in the lake!”

He pulled his phone and dialed. All phones around him vibrated. “Hardison,” he growled. “Google shell-shock. How long does it take to end, and all means of speeding it up.”

“What?” Florence said into the phone, then realized he was two steps away and put the phone down. “I’m not shocked now – I’m not crying or something – this is my normal behavior.”

“Yep, that dreadful possibility _did_ cross my mind.”

She grumbled something and continued climbing down. He wasn’t sure, but it sounded like ‘bazooka’, or something.

“Stay. Behind. Me.”

She stopped and waited until he passed by her, followed by Sophie.

Sophie’s eyes were strangely bright, he saw that when he turned to check where Nate was; he was slowly shutting the door behind them. He glared at Sophie, once at Florence, then at Sophie again, just in case, before he continued.

By the time they reached the platform with the door for the first level, he had stumbled three times, every uncontrolled step slicing through him. He knew how it went; more pain would make him stumble more, more stumbling would send more pain, damn circle without escape. He was still freezing.

It seemed that cold didn’t bother the rest of them so much. They looked uncomfortable, but nothing more, not even Sophie. He couldn’t stop shivering, and he was thankful for the darkness that hid it.

“That’s it,” he whispered when they gathered on the platform, carefully. “Nate, any sign of danger, call immediately, don’t wait. I’ll need some time to climb up from the second level.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

“It seems we two are both equally slow,” Sophie said. “I’ll go with you, Nate will take Florence.”

“Good idea,” all three of them said at the same time. _Thank you, Sophie_.  He had to concentrate to pull this through, and not waste his strength arguing about TV shows. “Come,” he turned around and started climbing down.

He forgot to follow his own advice, and stepped in the poodle, splashing water with a hissed curse. He grabbed the railing and kept himself up in the last second.

“Footprints,” an ominous low voice from the platform commented. “Splashy footprints all over the place.” He pretended he didn’t hear anything.

Sophie tapped him lightly on his forearm, flashing one half invisible smile. _What was with that damn tapping him, all over again_?

She didn’t walk behind him, she kept herself close on his left side.

“Behind me, Sophie.”

“Of course, in a bit,” she said lightly. And stayed where she was.

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***

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The doors for the second level opened with a long, wailing screech and Sophie twitched beside him. The worst of all, ominous horror music from cheap movies, played in his head, mixing with the thunder blasts from the outside. Damn, he really didn’t need this.

They were just ten meters inside the second level, when their phones vibrated.

He sighed and answered a call, Sophie too.

“Good, I was just checking if you would answer,” Florence said quickly. She didn’t even whisper. “Did you know, in movies and series, nobody in peril never, ever, answers a phone call from somebody desperately trying to warn them?”

“Are you desperately trying to warn me of something?”

 “No, no, it was just a rehearsal. And just for your information, TV tropes are the important part of every culture, that’s something all nations share. Put a Polynesian fisherman into the ruin’s basement, and trust me, he would know what to do, and what not to. Do you watch anything on TV? Be sure our bad guys do. So, when the bad guys enter the basement, they instinctively follow what they’ve been seeing on TV for their entire life. Do you want to bet they won’t split up?” She took one moment pause to catch her breath. “Don’t throw away someone else’s experience just because it’s different from yours. There are things that are implemented in people’s minds, and if you know what they might be, you can use it.”

By the time she finished, he could barely suppress a grin.

“You’re babbling again.”

“I’m _explaining_ ,” she hissed. “To explain: make clear, plain or intelligible something that is not known or understood. A definition that all of you have problems with. I also _talk_. To talk: communicate or exchange ideas, information, etc. by speaking. You should try that occasionally. I’m not babbling, I’m coherent, and I make _sense_.”

“Babbling is more a matter of speed and rhythm. You’re babbling. And that’s good, do continue. I’m sure Nate will be thrilled to hear everything you have to say… you have enough time.” With that, he ended the call and put the phone back in the pocket. Still grinning. It was nice to hear her babble again, instead of that silent fear.

Then he saw Sophie watching him and quickly turned around, facing the darkness.

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***

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In fact, Florence didn’t like, at all, that she had to go with Nate. She should be in Sophie’s place. The grifter might be perceptive, but if Eliot had fooled her until now, she wouldn’t find out _now_ how bad he was. The damn idiot had darkness and rain to help him hide everything.

She trotted in Nate’s tail, grumbling inwardly. Sophie would think he could do more than he could, and she wouldn’t stop him doing something insane. She should’ve been there, she knew.

“It will go faster if you take the rooms on the right side to check, leaving the rest to me,” Nate waited for her when they faced the long, long corridor with many doors and openings on both sides. “No splitting up,” he added with a smile. She flashed her lamp around, and shadows grinned at her. Fuck, she was scared. And she was the only one, as far as she could see. Strange, Sophie didn’t seem scared at all. The grifter was silent and alert, as if she didn’t feel the cold and damp clothes at all, all her attention concentrated on E-

“Florence?” Nate’s question messed her train of thoughts and conclusion escaped her; she looked at him. “Okay,” she whispered. “I’m just… I won’t bother you with talking. I’ll be quiet.”

“Good.”

Damn, it would be the best if Nate was with him – Sophie, no matter how skilled, wasn’t of any concrete help in situations like these. And she had a very bad feeling that he would need Nate before this night was over.

“You know, if we hurry, we can finish this fast and then go help them,” she said, thinking about how to tell him, without _telling_ him. “You said they have the bigger level.”

“Probably.” He went to his side and she got the message, getting busy with the first rooms. If anything, her remark about footprints was stupid. Everything was wet and soaked, and full of wet and dry footsteps. She could trace the exact route of the patrols, which rooms they checked and which they didn’t.

“Hidden things, would they be in the rooms they went in, or in those they just observed from the doors?” she asked Nate in half whisper. The silence was ruined by the distant rustling of the rain and thunders, but the corridor echoed a little, enough for him to hear her.

“Check everything. And try not to step on spots they weren’t stepping on to – we don’t want the floor to collapse on Sophie’s and Eliot’s heads.”

“Good you mention them,” she quickly continued, returning to the corridor to meet him. “They did look a little… weird.”

“They?”

“Well, yes… different than usual. That weird. Funny.”

He said nothing. They both kept their lights to the floor, but she could see how he tilted his head watching her.

She quickly raised her light and pointed it up, blinding him. His face was expressionless, she couldn’t read anything, he didn’t even blink to protect his eyes. His eyes were disturbingly keen even when he didn’t try to figure her out, but now, it was extremely disturbing.

And he was still silent. She knew he was processing what she had said, searching for all hidden meanings – and finding them – but why didn’t he let her see any conclusion on his face?

“You ain’t trying to think about your grand grand aunt right now, are you?” she asked wearily. That, if nothing, made him blink.

He was, she finally realized. Okay, not about that particularly, but his version of it certainly. He didn’t let her see what he was thinking. _Why_? In all the days she spent with them, she hadn’t once seen him miss something. His attention to details was frightening. If _she_ could see all treacherous little signs Eliot gave away…

And now, she finally figured it out, Nate didn’t watch her waiting to hear _what_ she would tell him… but how. And if she would tell him at all.

She lowered the light and smiled, a great chunk of a burden lifted from her back.

“Those machine guns are long, right, so we’re searching for elongated packages?” she asked lightly.

“Or seven smaller, square ones, with Chinese letters.” He nodded.

“Good, I’ll continue,” she danced with the light to the right side, and followed one broad set of many footprints. She made only five steps when she heard a clang in front of them, deep in the darkness that spread down the corridor, and froze. Nate was by her side in an instant, taking her lamp and turning it off.

“We s-shouldn’t-“ she gasped.

“Yep, I know,” Nate smirked. “Never go investigate flesh eating mummies when armed only with a flashlight, right?” He turned something on his lamp, and the broad ray of light became a sharp needle, giving no more light than a laser pointer. “Stay here.”

She sat on the one pile of garbage, hugged herself, and tried not to think about the darkness that crept near, twirling around her ankles.

Hearing his quiet footsteps was comforting. But then they stopped. She held her breath, trying to hear anything besides the distant chirping of the rain in the background.

“You may come now,” Nate said after silence that seemed three days long, and she hurried to join him. “You’re not afraid of any animals?”

“Animals? Not really, except maybe rats, I don’t like th-“She rushed into the circle of his light that came from one room, and found herself five steps away from dozens of rats running away into darker corners. It wasn’t the _rain_ that chirped.

She froze, stopping the scream only with her own hand. “Fuck,” she bit her knuckle to get it together. She wouldn’t scream and drew who knows what onto them, not after her speech of movie clichés. Sometimes she really hated she was blond.

“They came from this side,” Nate was busy with opening one small door, half of his size – more rats poured out and she squinted, forcing herself to stay where she was, even when they ran only a few feet from her. “I’ll need more light. Come closer.”

Making one, then two wooden steps was just a matter of will, she said to herself, squinting when she almost fell over sharp metal poles scattered all around.

The light of two lamps, set on to the broad light again, revealed the dark entrance; Nate was already half into it, dragging something heavy.

_Newsflash; a man found beheaded by a giant rat – new species evolved in abandoned slaughterhouse, fed on rotten and radioactive cattle food._

“I think we found their seven packages,” his words were muffled, but the Chinese letters shone bright red when light hit them. He pulled out two packages and pushed them towards her. “Metal, heavy, and sealed. Drag them to the middle while I take the rest, they are deeper.”

She put the lamp between her teeth and did what he told her, glancing worriedly at his disappearing in the small door. _If it looked like a lair, smelled like a lair…_

The dragging sounds were comforting; she sighed, observing the packages. They looked more like large boxes, and their lids were unmovable. Because of them her life was a mess, they got her cameraman killed.

“You okay?” Nate emerged again, pushing two more before him, and she nodded. “I’m done in a minute, don’t go anywhere.”

Sure, she would go for a walk. Instead of a reply, she took one pole with a sharp end, turned one package a little, and pressed the sharp point beneath the lid. It gave way with a quiet plop.

She had no idea what she expected to find in it; money, drugs, jewels, secret documents… but she found herself staring at something that looked like an old black scarf wrapped around a ball of clothes.

She carefully poked the thing with the lamp, and it turned around. Two dead, putrid eyes beneath the wisps of black, greyish hair looked at her; one eyelid fell, a dreadful parody of a blink. For one long moment her mind was crystal clear – now she knew why those rats were driven around the packages, when the awful smell of rotten flash hit her.

She stuttered back, a suppressed hysteria boiling up within her, until it reached the point of her mind exploding, and she screamed, and screamed, and screamed, engulfed in the smell that stuck to her face and hands. And she couldn’t stop.

 

*

 


	42. Chapter 42

 

Chapter 42

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***

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Eliot didn’t quite know how he got to the first level; he knew Sophie was right behind him, alarmed by that dreadful scream just as he was. The scream was still echoing all around them when they rushed into the room from which the flickering light came – no, he knew it didn’t last that long, but it _felt_ like it had.

Nate and Florence were alive, that was his first thought when he saw them. Florence was sitting high above Nate’s head, on some sort of column, her sneakered feet swaying in front of his face. He held his phone to his ear.

“Why aren’t you answering your calls?” Nate said when he saw them, lowering the phone. “You didn’t have to come-”

“What happened?!” Sophie said breathlessly. “What calls? I'd like to see you noticing vibrating in your pocket while you run up metal stairs. What _happened_ , Nate?”

Before Nate could answer, his phone vibrated, and they all answered the call.

“What the hell happened, who screamed!?” Hardison sounded frantic.

“Don’t tell me it went through the woods – you’re not in Lucille? Where are you?”

“No comms, no cameras, what would I do there? Take a nap? I’m right above you, but I’m slow, I brought  five small cameras with me and I’ll put them down the stairs and one for each level – did you know you took all the flashlights, leaving me blind?!  A phone is not enough for safe walking, you hear me? Man, how I hate this place! Y’all okay? Your line was busy so I called Parker, she said everything is still clear. She didn’t hear the scream, so nobody else did.”

“Good that you’re here, we’ll need you. Come to the first level.”

Nate ended the call and pointed to something on the floor, hidden in the darkness. Sophie pointed her lamp and Chinese letters became visible.

Eliot deeply regretted going two steps closer, when Sophie went to Florence and Nate. He wasn’t prepared for a fucking head in a box, of all things – this one had hair, black hair, it wasn’t bald, yet the memory of Barclay’s head on the table in Estrella hit him without warning, like a blow in the gut. He stopped mid-step.

He quickly closed his eyes to erase Estrella from his mind, but it made it even worse, every fucking detail, carved into his mind, flashed in front of him, and stopped his breathing. And he already could barely breathe after running upstairs. Dizziness stirred the darkness around him in black and grey waves.

“Checking corridor,” he whispered, turning around. He was heading for a blackout, his legs were rubbery – those few steps he needed to take to leave the room were almost impossible, but the darkness hid him. His swaying was barely visible when he left the small circle lit by the flashlights, and the corridor wall provided some sort of support.

He didn’t get far. His legs gave way on the third step outside the room, and he just slid down the wall and sat on the dirty floor. His teeth clattered uncontrollably.

He was being reckless. He knew that. He wasn’t expecting _this_ , and he ran into it with his guard down, taking a direct blow. Too occupied by pain and weakness; too concentrated on danger, too scared because of that scream… he simply didn’t have enough concentration to protect his mind from all the shit that this place could remind him of. And that could kill them all. This could happen when surrounded by goons, under attack.

There was no excuse for lowering his guard, ever.

The damp dust smelled exactly like the back alley where he killed Barclay, and no matter how hard he tried to concentrate and get it together, he wavered one step further, two steps back.

The thunder blasts – and he counted five, one after another – sounded just like the explosions in Estrella’s basement.

“Oh, there you are.”  A light flickered near him on the floor, but Sophie turned it off when she came one step nearer. “Nate said we’ll wait for Hardison, two more minutes – soon we’ll be able to hear him above us. We have to move those packages first before we continue searching for the guns. He is trying to negotiate with Florence to come down from that column, but I escaped – too many rats in there. Have you heard anything suspicious?”

It took a few seconds for him to process her words – damn, he didn’t need her here now - and he took one careful breath to steady his voice. “N-nothing for now,” he said slowly. Why did she turn the light off when the rats were scattered all around, not just in the room?

The muffled whispers from the room were the only sounds for some time. The darkness still moved around him in waves, greyish where touched by the reflections from the room, and he couldn’t see her, though he felt her presence just two steps away. Her silence was unnerving him and he tried to stop shivering, as if she was able to hear it. _But Sophie hadn't been in the back street_. He repeated that in his head, fighting the smell and shadows. The pain didn’t help either, weaker than the agony after Barclay’s hits, but too similar. He simply couldn’t escape from there, his breathing became ragged, close to hyperventilation, his jaw set in a tight lock, his arms clutched his chest increasing the pain, waves spinning faster-

“Florence’s cat is really danger for your plant,” Sophie said quietly.

What? He blinked the sweat away from his eyes – _getting rid of the feeling of the cold scalpel in his hand_ – and searched for her in the blurry black around him. There was something strange in her choice of words, in her voice.

“Or, better, Orion is endangering George,” she continued, and her voice sounded closer. “You must be worried about him.”

Jesus, this wasn’t the time for small talk, Soph. But he had to answer, or she would notice he was acting strange, even in the dark. He searched his mind for the right words, the right reply, and found only one: “Seriously? I think I hear the rats comin’ closer. Ya’ should go inside.” He swore inwardly – that sounded too weary, more like a whisper than his normal voice, and he clutched his chest harder, letting one blinding flash of pain to go through his mind, to clear the fog.

“But, are you sure it’s really true?”

 _What, the rats_? He struggled to follow. George, Orion, not rats. _Please go away_. “What are you trying to say?” he managed to mask his whisper into impatience.

“Maybe the cat is, unknowingly, helping him.”

Yep, this was definitely the right time to discuss cat psychology. “A true humanist soil-digging cat, indeed,” he said with effort, making sure his tone wasn’t an invitation for a reply.

“You never know, Eliot”—her voice fell to a whisper—“maybe you put too much soil around him, and he can’t breathe. Can’t grow. Surrounded by a wall he cannot break.”

He said nothing. For five seconds his breath was caught in his throat, then he remembered to breathe, when another clap of thunder stirred him.

The quiet voices from the room became faster; Florence was explaining - babbling - something to Nate.

She came one step closer. He could smell her perfume. “I’m sure you gave him everything he needs in that soil.” Sophie’s voice was quiet, too, softened and gentle. _And deadly_. “But how do you know he can actually use it and grow? If his roots are surrounded by a wall of thick, compacted soil, he is captured and stuck. Letting the cat dig around him, no matter how disturbing it is, it might be just what he needs. The cat brings fresh air to him, Eliot.”

This was surreal. He refused to follow her words, to understand what she was talking about, concentrating to stop the dizziness, blaming his suddenly dry mouth on nausea, and _tried_ to go back into back street with Barclay. _Where’s a flashback when you need one_? He knew Barclay, understood him, knew how to deal with him. It was futile. Sophie moved, a darker shadow standing in front of him, pulling his eyes up to follow her.

No pitiful flashback could match the intensity of Sophie Deveraux; the darkness made her voice even more powerful, a deadly weapon.

“Sooner or later, you’ll have to set him free. He is a tree, after all, he is stronger than all the restrictions and limits.” Now he felt, more than heard, a small smile in her voice. “That pot is good enough for him for now, but don’t let him get used to the walls. To accept them.”

A splash, and a clang came from the direction of the stairway, and he heard the rustle of her jacket when she turned to listen. “Ah,” she said lightly. “Hardison is here. I’ll go tell Nate, you wait for him and direct him to us, okay?”

And she was gone, leaving him to blink in the darkness and wonder what the hell just happened, and what shit he was supposed to think of her words. Fucking equivocal grifter, elusive as a shadow. He rubbed his face wearily and forced himself to get up to wait for Hardison.

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***

.

That might not be Hardison. But the silhouette that appeared at the beginning of the corridor was lit by bluish phone light – and no goon would stumble so much, hitting every damn obstacle in his way. Eliot leaned on the wall and crossed his arms, assuming a half-bored pose that hid his shaking and gave him enough support to fool the hacker. Switching his mind into a different gear was much harder.

“Standing there, just standing, watching me stumble, that’s your idea of a fun?” Hardison rumbled, coming nearer. “Never occurred to you that you could turn on that flashlight you’re holding, huh?”

Well, fuck. He really had a flashlight in his hand – he was so fucked up that he didn’t notice it at all. “I’m helping your ninja skills,” he ground out. “Get in there, we’re losing time.” That almost sounded like a normal growl, he thought, following him into the room, keeping himself two steps behind.

Florence had climbed down in the meantime, and Sophie was beside her, speaking quietly. Nate had gathered all seven packages in the middle of the room.

“Okay, we lost no more than three minutes, but that’s it.” Nate was at full speed again, judging by his tense moves. He closed the package with the head in it, and straightened up. “We don’t have time to take them to Lucille, just enough to hide them somewhere close in the woods. Eliot, you continue with the second level and search for the guns. Four of us are here, we’ll need two trips to get all the pack-”

“Nah, no way, I ain’t carrying no packages,” Hardison quickly jumped in. “I’m essential to the gun search – it’s the second level. I know the second level, I walked all of it, while this lazy ass just slept through it all – I’m going with him.”

“Hardison, seven pack-”

“I said, I’m going. With. Him.”

He didn’t deign to respond to that, shooting just one glare, knowing that Nate would cut the hacker’s drama queen show short and make him carry two-

“All right, you’re right,” Nate nodded. “Go with him, and go now.”

“What?!” Fuck, he wanted to go alone, not waste his strength on hiding things in front of them.

“If we are splitting up, at least we won’t go one by one,” Nate smirked, rewarded by a grateful glance from Florence.

“I don’t need him to-”

“Cut the crap, Eliot – do you want me to repeat _your_ speech about how splitting up would speed the search up? Two of you can do it twice as fast, so stop, and go already!”

Fucking logic. Nate was right about the speed. But there was no logic in forcing two women to carry body parts, while Hardison could easily take two at the time. “All right.” This time growl escaped naturally, fueled by frustration. “Open every package and look inside,” he added with a dark smile. “Take the head and arms in the first round, in case something happens and we don’t have time to return for the rest.”

“Why!?” Sophie sounded disgusted.

“Fingerprints and dental records,” Nate nodded. “Bonnano will need that first.”

“Oh,” Hardison said quietly. “Nobody remembered to mention the body parts to me.”

“Move.” Eliot turned around, turning the light on. Hardison took the flashlight from Sophie and followed him with the irritating enthusiasm of an overgrown puppy.

“You won’t scare me this time with un-hitterish behavior, right?” the hacker mumbled when they returned to the stairs to climb down. “I told Nate that letting you rummage the internet freely would mess you up, and man, you _are_ a mess. You’re evolving serious geeky qualities, and it ain’t good. Even your typing is getting better, it ain’t slow, random poking with one finger, I saw you use more than four fingers while writing. Your hitterism is wavering towards hackerism and I predict nasty side effects from that transformation, and I tell you what, that isn’t-”

“Shut up, Hardison. And stop wandering aimlessly back and forth, walk behind me.”

“Yeah, yeah, I hear ya.”

Hardison tapped him lightly while returning one step back, and he hissed a warning. “Tap me one more time, and I’ll feed you that hand.”

It was illusory to expect him to do what he said, but at least he started to walk in a straight line beside him. Hardison’s stumbling made his own less noticeable, and the darkness covered up everything else.

“I’m keeping you entertained,” Hardison continued after only four seconds, when they reached the bottom of the stairs. “You just have to admit, at one point, that you miss working with me every day, and that you _love_ when we talk. And don’t think I’m against your internet adventure, no way – I’m actually very happy. Very soon, mark my words, I’ll make you play games with _me_ , and not with Betsy.”

He really envied people who could breathe and walk at the same time without any effort. He stared at him, not moving, as if he _wanted_ to stop, and not as if he needed to stop to catch his breath. Running up the stairs had drained him completely, he could barely stand.

Hardison leaned on the stair railing as well. “The Internet is a great thing, and it gets under your skin. Two or more days, and you’re done, no going back. It is one huge, huge library – the knowledge of the entire world in one place – you have yet to discover it all. For example, funny things about animals. Did you know that a flea can jump up to two hundred times their height?”

“You _are_ aware that I’m not listening to you?”

“A cat has thirty two muscles in each ear. Bats always turn left when exiting the cave,” Hardison continued as if he said nothing. “Hummingbirds are the only birds that can fly backward. Ostriches can run faster than horses. The divorce rate in Hollywood marriages is eighty percent. All polar bears are left handed-”

“I’m not list-” he stopped when he got it, then got instantly pissed off because he stopped.

“See?” Hardison wasn’t smiling. “You listened.”

If there was one thing he was certain he didn’t want, it was Hardison poking his nose into, into… he cursed under his breath, realizing he didn’t know what to call this shit that was happening to him. ‘Liking the client’ was bullshit , it was more than – he quickly stopped that thought, barely in time.

“Hardison,” he said slowly. And very low. “You will now do exactly two things. Shut your mouth, and move your legs. Okay?”

“Of course,” he darted a grin at him and turned around, waiting for him to go first.

They had stopped for less than half a minute, but it was enough to collect a little strength and slow his heart rate again. Yet, dizziness was constant, every step was tiresome, and he desperately needed to sit and rest. He tried not to think about the return to Lucille, through the woods again.

They had just reached the second level when their phones rang again.

“I’m sending Florence to you.” Nate said only that and ended the call. Before he could think if would it be clever to call him back and ask for a damn good explanation, her steps were heard behind them. He sighed and they both waited for the flickering light to come closer to them.

Her eyes were frantic. “I’m sorry, I tried, I really tried, but I couldn’t force myself to go near the head – package – those eyes had blinked, I swear – then Nate gave me the package with an arm in it and I picked it up and it _moved_ inside kinda rolled and I dropped it so I picked it up again and it moved again so I dropped it again then Nate stopped me from picking it up for the third time and said it was all right and that I can go after you and and and-”

He waited until she spent the last molecules of breath, then quickly moved his hand, poking her with one finger in the solar plexus. Just a slight touch, nothing drastic, but enough for her to squeak and bend forward in shock.

She stayed bent for two seconds, gripping her stomach, than slowly raised her head. “Oh,” she said, surprised. “Thanks. That worked.”

“Silence,” he said, looking first at Hardison, then at her. “I need _silence_. Both of you, don’t talk.”

He didn’t know what was in his voice, but they both quickly nodded.

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***

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It took only five minutes to go through the several rooms Eliot had searched with Sophie, and investigate the smaller passages that went to both sides. But that was less than one third of the second level, they had yet to enter the giant two-story tall room that they’d been led into the last time. The smell of rotten cattle food emanating from the pile in the middle of it announced they were near it long before they finally reached the door. It didn’t help his nausea at all.

The room was lit with two lights, very high up but a little stronger than the two that were there before, and they could see much more than the last time.

“This isn’t good,” Hardison said quietly when they opened the door. This time, the rows of pens didn’t disappear in the darkness – they were visible all the way down to the other side.

He glanced at Florence to see how she was doing. She was distraught already even without body parts and rats – but it seemed that her fear was still under control. She stared around her, aiming her flashlight at the darker parts and shadows at the sides of the room. Looking for rats, probably.

Hardison pulled out his phone and called. Damn dead earbuds – he had to do the same, to hear the other’s responses.

“Nate, Parker blew up their electric switchboard room the last time, and it’s functioning again.  The guns are definitely here, judging by that speed, and who knows what else. Where are you?”

Nate’s voice came through strange roaring sounds; the wind was obviously stronger. “Just left the first three packages in a thicket, a few minutes’ walk from the fence. I left my earbud beside them so we can find them later. We’re going back for the others. Hurry up. Parker, how are you doing?”

“Survived two thunder strikes at the silos,” she chirped in, followed by the same gusts of wind. “Waiting for the third.”

“What?! You were supposed to be on the roof!”

“The silos are taller. Don’t worry, I’m not _on_ the silos, I’m between them, in the middle. Had enough rope, connected them. This is _awesome_! The wind is getting stronger, and my hair is full of electricity, and it stands _up_.”

Jesus. The disturbing mental image of Parker squashed between two silos collapsing on each other when struck by lightning, was very vivid. He pinched the bridge of his nose, glancing at the greenish Hardison.

“We should hurry up,” the hacker said when he put the phone in his pocket.

“Definitely hurry up,” he agreed. “Go left, I’ll take this side. Florence, you come with me.”

Hardison nodded and moved away, entering the rows, and after a few seconds he could tell where the hacker was only by the noise he made. Finally. He didn’t have to keep his posture up in front of Florence, and his back straightened. Relaxing his shoulders was a careful test, but it went well. And he was still standing, so everything else was irrelevant, he said to himself. There would be enough time for rest later. He wiped his face with a jacket sleeve, and surprisingly, the cold, wet leather now brought refreshment, not chill anymore.

“How are you doing?” she asked conversationally.

“Fine, thank you for asking,” he said in the same tone. Maybe relaxing was a mistake, because her face was a little blurry. “But it would be wise to hurry this up,” he said as afterthought, reluctantly.

“Couldn’t agree more,” she whispered. “What we must do?”

“Just follow me.” He went to their side of the room.

The aisles on that side were similar to the others, but everything was blocked with garbage and building material and metal packing.  The long gallery stretching a few meters above them was partially collapsed as well, parts of it blocking their way. Even completely healthy he wouldn’t be able to move it to take a look behind and beneath it, so he just inspected it from all sides.  The dust and garbage on it was genuine, nobody had moved it for months.

“Hardison,” he whispered, and the giant room echoed his whisper far enough. “There’s something wrong in here. No matter how big this is, there isn’t, simply, enough room to hide-”

“- five huge shipping containers,” Hardison replied, still invisible, but not so far away. “Yep, I thought about that too. Maybe they emptied them and hid the guns separately? You _can_ hide hundreds of guns all around this place.”

“If that’s so, why ain’t we discovering them one by one already? No, we’ll have to expand the search to the upper levels.”

“Finish with your side first and meet me in the middle, by the pile of food – maybe there’s something underneath it.”

He continued inspecting as fast as he could, going all the way to the side wall. He had to use the flashlight when he got away from the middle, the lights weren’t strong enough to penetrate that far into the shadows and darkness. Still nothing. Not even a bullet, much less a machine gun.

Florence quietly followed him, though he thought she would hesitate to come near the darker parts.

He didn’t like the feeling that something was escaping them. His feeling of unease exploded when his phone vibrated. Parker.

“Bad news!”—she was yelling because of the wind—“very bad, bad news. In short: run.”

“Details, Parker,” Nate said immediately.

“The mine is still without electricity so I didn’t see them coming out of the buildings, no lightning at that time. I saw them only when they turned the engine and lights on. They aren’t coming on foot, they are _driving_ because of the storm, and they’re halfway there already. Your escape plan just went from a comfortable four minutes to thirty-five seconds.  Like I said, run.”

“How many?”

“Confirmed two in the front seats, that’s all I could see – possibly three in the back. Don’t know,” her voice rose even more. “A few hundred meters by car is just fifteen seconds, they are stopping – they’ll enter at any moment. Go!”

Just great. Parker was hanging in thin air, in the darkness, a perfect target if they spotted her; Nate was alone with Sophie and he was coming closer, and the three of them were waiting for who knew how many mobsters in a well-lit place.

While they were talking, Eliot studied the nearby surroundings. Hardison emerged from the shadows, moving to the lit part in the middle – though he listened to the phone as well, he was also thinking fast, his eyes quickly moving all around.

“Okay, Parker, calm down,” Nate said. “Sophie, stay here – we're near the fence, very close, now I can see the car, they are already in,” he added to the rest of them as explanation. “Eliot, Hardison, whatever you do, they must not see you. Knudsen must not know we’ve been here, or tomorrow’s action is a bust. He mustn’t even suspect anything, is that clear?”

“There are only two options, Nate,” Eliot said, nodding to Hardison and Florence to move away from the brightest light. “Hide, or retreat.  The light is stronger, but we have plenty of good spots to hide in the shadows, among the rows. Two ways to retreat – staircase that’ll soon be blocked, if not already, and on the opposite side of the building, the holes in the walls and collapsed rooms that Parker found the last time when she and Hardison went out.”

“Won’t work this time,” Hardison said. “We don’t have any rope now, that’s how she came down. She had to pull me up, no way we can climb to the upper level without it.”

Well, that definitely made the choice easier. “Nate, what about the rest of the packages? If they see-”

“When we left I pushed the rest back in their place and closed it. No traces, unless they go deep into that closet-room to check.”

“Okay, you stay away, we’ll think of someth-”

“Checking the ground level and staircase,” Hardison interrupted him, typing on his tablet, keeping the phone between his ear and shoulder. “If they go up first-”

“You said the cameras ain’t working.”

“I said they _are_ , but they can’t _see_ anything. And I put new ones on the stairs on my way in, and one on each floor. These guys will bring the light I need, they’ll show themselves. Just be patient for one second, will ya? I know it’s almost impossible for you to achie-  here, they are climbing down quickly; they didn’t pause to check anything on the ground level, that means there’s nothing there....shit.”

“Shit?”

“They passed the first level, heading directly here, will be here in a minute. We have to-”

“I just entered the building after them, and I’m on the ground level now, above them,” Nate’s voice trailed in. “Can you three hide better if I turn the lights off?”

“We can, yes, but – you _can’t_ do it, you said they can't know we’ve been here, that will tell them-”

“Lightnings are slamming the building, Hardison, they already turned off the electricity in the whole mine. I’ll wait for the thunder, flip the main switch a couple of times, make some flickering, and turn all the lights off. It won’t be suspicious in this storm.”

“Okay, do it – you can’t miss the main switch, it’s always the biggest one, just pull it down.”

For a few seconds Nate’s side of the line was full of metal clanging and doors opening, then he spoke again. “Hide. Parker, climb down, go to the back side of the building, be ready to leave. Leave no traces. Hardison, status?”

“They entered the second level – they have one more minute to pass the first rooms, not more. Find the breaker box?”

“Yep, I’m on it. Counting the second between the lightning and the thunder – thank god for the broken windows here so I can see them.”

While Hardison spoke to Nate, Eliot found a place to hide. On Hardison’s side of the room, at the very beginning, a few rows were completely destroyed, forming an amorphous mess of metal poles mixed with the better part of the gallery. The shadows behind it were impenetrable for this light – when Nate turned it off they would be impossible to find. They would also be near the door; that gave them a chance to skip past the goons if they entered deeper in the room. If Hardison didn’t stumble at the key moment, they would escape unnoticed.

“Florence, get in.”

She hesitated just a moment in front of the dark mass – when he thought he would have to yell at her, she moved, disappearing in the blackness. He found and threw a big sheet of metal over her, just in case. “Hardison, go!”

The hacker hurried toward him. Stumbling, of course, while looking the tablet. “Seven seconds until the doors open. Nate-”

He pulled him after him into the shadows. “Turn it off, Hardison, blue light.”

The doors opened.

Two goons stopped at the doorway for a second – he listened to the sounds from outside, waiting for the thunder. When they took a second step, one thunder cracked somewhere near.

He expected the light to flicker and die.

For one second nothing happened.

One second after that, he started to count all the shit that could stop Nate from flipping the switch, and resisted the reflex to get up from the cover.

In the third second a loud hiss wailed through the room. Blinding light flashed all around them. _What the fuck_?!

He covered his eyes but it was useless. Five huge reflectors, very high, and very hidden until they flashed, blinded them all. The hissing sound became screeching when hydraulics moved something. Only a couple meters away from the place they were hidden, the floor moved, went up, and revealed a lit room with a ramp.

“What was that sound?” Nate spoke through the phone forgotten against his ear. “Lights off?”

For a moment he stared at the two guys who were also peeking through their fingers, half blind like they were. They stared back. The shadows they were in might’ve been impenetrable for the two small lights high above them, but reflectors went straight through, revealing them completely.

He slowly turned around. Not completely. Florence was still covered by the metal sheet that shielded her from the goons’ eyes.

“Erm, Nate… you pulled _what_ , exactly?” Hardison sang behind him, slowly getting up, smiling friendlily to the goons. One of them was Goon B.

“The main switch, the biggest one. Had a Do Not Touch sign attached to it. Why?”

Eliot held the hacker from taking a step toward the goons. He slowed his breathing.

“Start working on Plan B,” he said, and tried a friendly smile.

The goons pulled guns out.

.

*

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	43. Chapter 43

 

Chapter 43

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***

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“Get out of that hole, now!” Goon B yelled, keeping a steady aim on them. The guy beside him was older and unknown, but his hand with the gun was equally steady.

His order was perfect, Eliot meant to do the exact thing. Both he and Hardison walked out of the cover, going a few meters aside, towards the empty space in the middle and opening to another basement level. Hardison even spared one glance to look inside.

Florence was still hidden under the huge sheet of metal, and if she didn’t move, the goons wouldn’t notice her. He counted the distance between him and Hardison, and her. Six meters. Goons were in front of them, about ten meters away, watching them walking and stopping. Florence’s cover was now in their peripheral vision, their eyes fixed on their catch, and maybe even her eventual move would go unnoticed.

He left his phone on the garbage before making his first step, turned to the goons so Nate could hear everything. Hardison didn’t bother to do it, he kept both the phone and the tablet. He even typed on the tablet, seemingly unconcerned, while walking.

“You, again?” Goon B spitted. “You are _trying_ to get killed and spare us searching.”

“Nah, I meant to say the same thing,” Hardison grinned broadly. “You, again? You’re coming for the next beating, haven’t had enough? When will you learn?”

“Nope, he wasn’t in the parking lot under the Dvorak Security building,” Eliot shook his head. “He missed one.”

“Will you do it, or is it my turn now?” Hardison asked him. The older guy took his phone – not moving the hand with the gun - and Hardison quickly typed something. “You, there, leave that phone alone! Don’t call Knudsen, you fool – it’s better he doesn’t know that you had us here, and that we, _again_ , beat the crap out of you and just walked away. Ask your friend. No bonus for him.”

The guy stopped his call for a few seconds, looking at Goon B – that prolonging gave Hardison enough time to access his phone. Or at least Eliot hoped so.

Eliot couldn’t spare a glance to the hacker - his calculation was finished the first second they stood in their positions. He was two seconds short in reaching them in time. He was too slow to charge into two guys that looked directly at him, before they fired their bullets.

He knew who would give him one second.

“Nuff’ talking, move,” Goon B waved his head to the door. The older one kept pressing his phone, with a confused expression.

“I won’t,” he said crossing his arms. “We are not alone here, and you can’t touch us. She almost killed your guys in that parking lot, though I tried to slow her down a little, but now I won’t. You brought it to yourself.”

“She? What- move, I said!”

“Florence, come out.”

Yes, he _did_ know how risky this was, he didn’t need Hardison’s caught breath to show him that. He knew better than the hacker how unreliable she was now. But he also knew how quick her brain worked, and how fast she gathered herself in danger. Her mind was, also, set on the action sequences on default, she wrote stuff like this and she would recognize the pattern. Hardison was just two steps away from him, he couldn’t give him that second – but she could.

“I won’t,” a muffled, sulking voice came out from the cover and he almost cursed himself and his stupid trust, when she continued. “Take them yourself, you don’t need _me_ for just two of them.”

“You brought us _her_ as well?” Goon B was watching him now with something akin to pity. But he was watching him, still.

“Florence, get out, he doesn’t believe me,” he growled, just partially faking how pissed off he was. “Show them the hurricane from the garage, will ‘ya?”

“Mrmwh… okay.”

She dragged herself out, squinting under the reflector’s light, looking as dangerous as a fluffy pillow in spite of the leather jacket and the beanie. Goon B blinked a few times. The older guy snorted.

“Hey!” she hissed. “A little respect here!” Then she turned to him with an uncertain question in her eyes. “Are you sure?” she asked pleadingly. “We’ll have to call an ambulance.”

“Don’t worry, they deserve it. Just do it.”

“This is so embarrassing,” she said unhappily, making three careful, small steps towards the goons, and aside. He held his breath, half terrified and half proud because she did it knowing what she was doing. The distance between him and her was now much more than six meters.

The goons watched her with raised eyebrows. They still watched him, too, but now _he_ was in their peripheral vision, she was in the center.

The small blonde slowly pushed the beanie off her forehead, with a thumb – pretty cool gesture, that should’ve been threatening as hell if she was six foot tall and male - the impression was ruined with one lock that fell on her nose and forced her to quickly rub it when it tickled her.

The goons weren’t the only ones that were fascinated with that picture; he blinked to concentrate, erasing from his posture every sign of tension, recalibrating his balance. He could feel Hardison going stiff at the same moment; the hacker knew what would follow.

“Ready?” Florence asked the goons. She slowly raised her arm in horizontal position; their eyes were glued to her, waiting. She kept it one second leveled, than waved with her hand up and down.

“Wha-“ Goon B snorted, the other guy’s jaw fell – that was the moment he had waited for.

They caught his move instantly – he knew they would – but she dulled their sharp attention, slowing it down. Hardison sprinted at the same time but in the opposite direction, towards Florence, confusing them even more. Another second, while they hesitated between two fast moving targets.

He needed just a blink of an eye, before they turned their eyes on him, putting him in the center again – and he was there, in front of them. He heard a grunt when Hardison pushed Florence further away, and their rolling on the floor into the cover.

He slammed into Goon B, casting him aside onto the other guy.

The pain exploded, but heck, he knew it would.

One gun went off, the bullet roaring up by his head, the sound going in a slow wave. That _slow_ wave was strange.

 _Everything_ slowed down.

His mind processed every move through molasses – his thoughts were too quick for the movement that followed them. He had enough time to wonder how he could be so slow, when he noticed that the goons were even slower. He watched – and it took some time in his mind – their hands beginning to strike towards him, knowing where they would end, waiting for them ready. It didn’t matter that his moves were in slow motion too, they were faster than theirs. Block, hit, dodge, repeat.

He threw the second gun behind him, while one fist was going, and going, to his face – he just let it pass, moving two inches aside.

Hit, dodge, block, repeat. And again. And again.

The molasses grew thicker.

There wasn’t any air to breathe; his concentration was shattering.

One was down. He couldn’t see exactly which one. The other one was still standing, still hitting him. His own moves started to slow down too, every one weaker than the other.

Then the first one was up again… no, no he wasn’t. He stopped his turn in the last second, barely able to recognize Hardison, finishing the move on the other face instead. That swing added a weight to his hit and it took him down, finally. The goon collapsed over the other one in a limp pile.

Shit, this had lasted for hours, no wonder he was so tired.

He slowly turned around to check them both. Florence was still near the same spot. Hardison was slowly moving his hand somewhere, just one step away. His mouth was moving too.

The hacker’s hand ended up on his shoulder, gripping him. Slow motion gave him enough time to decide not to push it away. “Don’t-“ that was only thing he could hear, through that sticky something all around him. Fuck, his thoughts were slower, too.

“Don’t what?” he breathed, carefully moving his hand to rub his eyes. That didn’t make his vision any more focused, just blurred Hardison even more. The next second – and he would bet on his life it was just a second – Florence waved her hand in front of his eyes.

Complete disorientation spun everything off its axes – her hand was _above_ him. When? She was meters away just before he blinked. Hardison was behind her now, his mouth moved by the phone.

He lay on his back – or had been laid – and he had no memory of falling.

She leaned over him, tapping him on his cheek. He tried to concentrate to hear what she was talking – _tapping, again, really_? – but he gave up when she took her beanie off and waved it in front of his face a few times. As if he was some old lady that fainted in a supermarket, for god’s sake.

“The hell… ya’ doin’?” he managed to whisper. His own voice sounded distorted and strange.

She stopped waving. Of course he couldn’t decipher what she said, except she was talking very, very fast, and very scared, and he squinted just imagining _that_ babbling. The squinting was mistake, too, everything jumped around him. When he tried to focus on her again, the lights went out. He couldn’t say if it was figuratively or literally. But the darkness was comfortable, and everything was so quiet.

Bleh, confusing shit.

The only way to stop that was to close his eyes.

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***

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Florence knew Eliot would spring as an arrow just like he did when he jumped out of Lucille after the last visit to this damn place, but this time she hadn’t had time to get scared. Hardison started the same moment Eliot did, throwing her away. He didn’t have to bother with that, the goons were too occupied. The hacker realized that as soon as he pushed her into cover and turned around and he sprang to his feet again; but when he reached Eliot, the fight was more or less over.

She flew to them, recognizing the fall in Eliot’s stumble, yet Hardison was ready, caught him before he crashed down.

“Stay with him, keep him awake,” the hacker didn’t waste any time. “Nate, we’re clear. Hurry.”

Hardison turned around, quickly going to the new level – she didn’t know what he did down there, but the lights went off, leaving only two weak ones.

Her hope flickered for a moment; Eliot’s eyes were open, he even said something, but no matter what she said, or did, he couldn’t keep his eyes open more than a few seconds.

She was aware that it was just a black out, nothing more – he had been running on fumes for too long – but it was terrifying to watch the light in his eyes faltering. She just stood there, helpless and desperate.

Hardison was still down, she heard him rumble. She hesitated to call him to help her, but she simply couldn’t leave Eliot to lie in this dirt. _Rats_ were running over this floor.

She did drag him once already, but then she didn’t know about his wound; now, it was out of question. She sat on the floor beside him and pulled him up a little, to rest against her. She could feel the heat radiating from him even through the jacket. _It’s normal, nothing to worry about_ , she knew he would say it if she asked him about a fever. At least his head wasn’t on the floor.

Everything was too damn fast. And everything was crushing down around them.

This time she _wanted_ to cry, and she couldn’t. Her eyes were dry and aching.

Dead people in pieces, rats, goons with guns, snipers, it was all too much – and everything they did, their every move, went south. The goons discovered them, the others might come at any moment, tomorrow’s action was ruined, and Knudsen would kill them all.

She held an unconscious man in her arms, for crying out loud.

She just, just couldn’t… continue with this. She stared empty, spent, defeated, with sobs that gathered in her chest and throat, unable to let them out.

They wouldn’t leave this place alive. Just when she thought that, she realized how much she trusted him. He was down. They couldn’t escape. And all of them would die here, and be buried under the rotten food.

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***

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“Florence?”

She slowly raised her eyes to Nate who was crouching before them. He frowned when their eyes met, and she tried to smile, to hide the dread she felt. She didn’t have to bother with that, not in front of him.

He checked Eliot’s pulse and breathing, a thing she didn’t think of.

“I want you to slowly get up and move away,” Nate went on. His smile was tense; he kept one hand on Eliot’s forearm. “C’mon, we have work to do. He’ll be fine.”

“What work? To choose some nice boxes for our heads? Do you think they’ll let us choose, or will they randomly put us in the first packages they find? Mixing our body parts? Jesus, that would be one hell of the CSI episode, s-six people puzzle in forty-two boxes.”

He hid the smile, took off his jacket and pulled Eliot from her, putting the jacket under his head.

“We are done, aren’t we?” she asked when he pulled her up to her feet. “At least we have those guns down there, we can barge the door and stop them from charging in. Did you call Bonnano to get us out before they come? The way our luck is going, we will be arrested for trespassing, not Knudsen.”

Sophie approached them; the grifter looked completely calm. That was strange. She only frowned when she glanced at Eliot.

Nate looked at his watch, then pulled out the phone. “Hardison, going back?” He listened for a moment, then nodded. “Okay, great. Parker, you’re in the position? You have a few more minutes.”

“What’s going on?” she asked when he finished the call.

“We’ve lost just five minutes – their patrol usually lasts more than twenty, so we have enough time to deal with this.” With that, he just turned around and went into lower room. _To deal with this_?  He said that as if he was talking about choosing a menu for lunch. She quickly followed him, but stayed on the first meter of the ramp that went down. The well-lit room was full of wooden boxes, some of them opened, with rows of shining barrels. It seemed there were much more than five large shipping containers full of guns – boxes went from wall to wall, up to the ceiling.

A loud crash stirred her. Above their heads, but deeper in the room, something fell and shattered. After two seconds of silence Parker slid from above - from nowhere – like a cape-less lithe Batman.

“All measured, Nate,” she yelled into the room after Nate. She clicked and pulled something on her harness, and the rope came down after her.

“Okay, go help Hardison, then both return down,” just when Nate said that, Hardison emerged from the darkness, stuttering and breathing heavily. Parker helped him to put one of the fallen goons over his shoulder, and he went out again, murmuring breathless curses.

Florence was glad that Parker stayed. She needed her for one idea that formed in her mind – only the thief would see all advantages of that and agree to help her.

She retreated from the opening before Nate came up again and went to check on Eliot. But Sophie stopped her after only one step, coming quickly between them, blocking her way.

“Hardison said to keep an eye on this, just in case,” the grifter pushed his tablet in front of her nose. “They managed to fix their power supply in the mine, their lights are on again, and we can see all outer cameras now.”

She glanced at the thing and nodded. They all avoided even to look at Eliot; Sophie literally had his back turned to him. Parker spared just one glance to him while passing by, and she wasn’t even warned that he was down. She was missing something, again. All their silent worry and care, all this time, and now they let him lie there alone, like a pile of dirt? What was the point in keeping watch over him in the apartment, when they stopped _now_? And she just began to understand the weird inner dynamics of this group. She made a mental note to ask Sophie directly when they had more time; she would tell her.

Nate came back and joined them. He also took a look at the tablet.

“The cameras are important for tomorrow,” he said. “Though, tomorrow we won’t have to worry about the light, but about the coverage.”

Something dark flew between her and Sophie, and Nate caught it; his jacket. She quickly turned around to see Eliot standing, dusting his own jacket off.

“Able to walk?” Nate asked.

“Yep.” Even his voice sounded normal, maybe a little raspier than usual. “Where to?”

“We need two more cameras on the side between the slaughterhouse and the mine – it was too open to put them there during the day. Hardison left them somewhere around, find ‘em. When finished, don’t come here again, wait for us by the fence.”

She opened her mouth to protest, then closed it. Nate knew how bad he was. Nate knew what he was doing, whatever it might be. This time she had to simply trust him, without evidence or clue.

But one of these days she would ask Eliot where the hell his battery charger was.

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***

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He wasn’t completely out. He knew where he was, what happened, and he was even aware of everything around him – at least, every twenty seconds when he pushed himself near the surface – and laying down helped with the buzzing in his head.

Sounds and voices had no meaning at the beginning, but very soon, he managed to catch the pieces, putting them into the puzzle. As the complete picture grew in his mind, the feeling of urgency kept him near the surface. He couldn’t decipher how long he was out – time was so slow down there, everything felt much longer than it really was. The mobsters might be on their way already. They had been discovered, they were scattered, they were deep in the trap with only one exit… one by one, thoughts started to connect into coherent assessment, clearing his mind until he forced himself to open his eyes.

The rest was easy.

Fuck, no. It wasn’t. The rest was… expected.

He got up, slowly, sluggishly, feeling groggier than on triple morphine. All the strange metal thingies danced around him, but people were steady in his focus.

Cameras, right. He could walk, so he could put them where they were needed.

He didn’t waste his strength on talking. Finding two small cameras in a blurry mess that was spinning around was difficult enough, but it seemed nobody watched his search. Sophie was checking Hardison’s tablet, Nate was just standing and looking at one pole, and Florence and Parker whispered to each other, walking on the edge of the shadows.

He had a feeling that he should know already where Hardison was, but that part kept escaping him. At least he found the cameras after few minutes search, left on the ground near the entrance to the lower level.

“What are we doing?” he asked Nate directly, knowing very well that he just showed him how shaken he was. He never had to ask things like that, usually.

Nate blinked, breaking the eye contact with the pole. “Turning a disaster into something that will give us a peaceful night.”

He stared at him. He was so damn tired of this shit, his probing, his cryptic statements. Nate returned a steady gaze. He could bet Nate counted the seconds before his reply.

“To save you some time,” he said, in a pissed off, strained whisper, “I would give me the three on the scale of zero to twenty. So stop with that shit. I have to know what we’re goin’ to do, to start preparing for that.”

Nate studied him for two seconds, then nodded. “We’ll do nothing,” he said. “Hardison is removing the mobsters. We have ten more minutes before someone starts to wait for their coming back. If we only make them disappear, as we did with those five we left in the woods, Knudsen will know someone had been here – precisely, us. And we can say goodbye to tomorrow’s action. I don’t have to remind you what continuation of his attacks, while we try to come up with something new, will mean?”

“Not really.” If they didn’t get rid of him tomorrow, they were in deep shit. Deeper than this one.

“But,” Nate went on, “an occupational accident, a tragic one, will lead Knudsen astray.” He opened his hand, showing him the two phones he was holding, and then threw them both in the middle of the rotten food. “Parker examined the pipes and silo connected with them,” he nodded at the dark, fat snakes going up into the darkness. “There’s at least five tons of food in that one. She will cut the pipe and bury the mobsters’ phones under the mess that will fill half the room. Knudsen’s men will search for these two guys and find a tragic accident scene – and if they track their phones, they will locate them deep, deep under all this. No time for digging them up. With inspection tomorrow, Knudsen will be busy covering this shit up, hoping that Inspector Lohman will stay only in the mine. They will be occupied this night, and even though he now knows that pixie is still alive, we got ourselves a postponement of execution. As I said in my first explanation… a peaceful night.”

Eliot turned around, looking at the pile, pipes, size and distances, trying to find holes, problems, dangers. Six people, two mobsters, three packages, one wood, one van… A tiresome and fucking slow process – his mind hadn’t catch up yet, every thought needed an effort to execute.

“Logistics,” he finally managed to whisper. Nate didn’t need more, he wasn’t fighting any molasses.

“Lucille to Lincoln – a five minute drive. Parker stealing another car, Hardison taking her, Sophie and the mobsters far away and leaving them. The three of us, with the packages, in Lucille.”

“Why Soph-“

“Because they will go home after that, not in the apartment. Even if tonight’s attack is not likely to happen, I want to lessen the number of targets. Betsy said the two of them are okay to go. So they’ll go.”

Eliot looked at the two small cameras in his hand. They could put them in the right places when they all got out. Nate was sending him up before them to give him a chance to climb the stairs in his own pace, and clear his head in process. Subtle, but not subtle enough. He thought about clearing that subject, but thought better and gave up. It was better to go before them – the remaining mobsters were in that direction, not down there.

He looked all around once more before going up, to confirm that everything was clear, and he caught something strange with the corner of his eye.

Parker and Florence were standing side by side now, looking around with indifference, as if they were bored to death. They both had their hands on their backs, like soldiers in the parade. They were couple more meters nearer the door than the last time he looked at them.

“Nate,” he said only that, glancing at them. Nate didn’t need more, his eyes went wide in an instant.

“You two, put them back,” Nate said in _that_ voice. Florence flinched, but Parker just snorted. “And wipe the fucking prints off the barrels, for crying out loud! Now!”

“But we might need-“

“Parker.”

“We really could use-“

“Parker. No.”

Slowly, hesitating, they turned around, heading for the lower level again, machine guns now visible on their backs. Both of them had two guns. Eliot wasn’t quite sure how they thought to smuggle them into Lucille without anyone noticing it – in fact, he didn’t _want_ to know. He couldn’t think about anything except the most important thing, concentrating on immediate tasks. Step after the step. He suppressed a sigh and let Nate deal with them.

He swayed. Then stopped it.

It was Thursday night – he had to stay on his feet until Saturday, no matter if he could do it or not.

The doors were black, blurry spots, far away – it hurt only to think about going all the way to reach the stairs behind them. He gritted his teeth, flashed one smile to Sophie, and started a slow, exhausting climb up to the ground level and the storm that waited for him.

At least he wasn’t freezing anymore.

.*

 


	44. Chapter 44

Chapter 44

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***

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“Uh-oh.”

Parker’s voice was incredibly clear, without wind or thunder in the background; it rang through Eliot’s phone as if she was standing right next to him. Hearing Parker say uh-oh was _never_ a good thing. He froze, clutching the phone, waiting for an explanation.

A low rumble that started slowly from all around him forced him to look up, into the rain that had been falling steadily for the last five minutes, which he spent waiting for them on the edge of the forest.

One silo _moved_. The rumbling sound grew stronger as the huge structure elegantly leaned onto another. Moving that one onto another… He stared without blinking, at five silos going down, one by one, like dominos, landing with a crushing tremble that flew through the trees around him stronger than the blast from an explosion.

“Parker!” Nate’s voice was incredibly pissed off, it whipped through his ear.

“Well, _now_ we know the five tons of grain was actually stabilizing that silo,” Parker said calmly. “What do you want from me, I can’t put it back!”

“Get out of there, now!” Eliot said before Nate started bitching. “You’re lucky they fell behind the slaughterhouse, and not on your heads – but this collapse isn’t helping, this is an unstable _ruin_. Everything can cave in. Get out!”

“Well, I’m glad I didn’t chose to put the two goons in that part of the forest,” Hardison trailed in from nowhere. Eliot didn’t see him going off nor returning; the hacker could be anywhere in the forest. He had a very unpleasant feeling that they would all get lost, and have to for dawn, stumbling through the forest trying to find Lucille. Or mobsters. Or packages. Or each other. With stupid phones against their ears.

At least he had a few minutes of doing absolutely nothing, getting himself together, slowing down his racing heartbeat. With this rest – if barely standing on his feet could be called resting – he would be able to survive the return to Lucille.

“Stay together,” he growled, checking the mine, now full of light again. The two cameras that he planted covered the entire huge meadow between the slaughterhouse and the first mine buildings. He could see small silhouettes gathering under the reflectors. “They’ll be here soon, you have less than two minutes to-”

Nate sighed heavily. “We’re out, stop nagging.”

“I’m not nag-”

“You are.”

“In fact, he wasn’t,” Sophie said, somewhat breathless.

“It sounded naggish,” Parker chirped. She wasn’t breathless at all.

He could see all four of them now, quickly coming around the building towards him. He noticed Nate didn’t bring any of the remaining four packages, and he knew why; if Knudsen’s men checked the small closet room, they would probably just open it, point a flashlight into the opening, and peek in it. The light would show them the first packages, and they probably wouldn’t drag them out to count them.

When they joined him, breathless, panting – okay, all except Parker – he saw what poor condition they were in, after only a two-story climb. A set of exercises for Leverage Associates was in the near future, as soon as he got himself together. They wouldn’t last even ten minutes of an inevitable chase through this forest.

Hardison, whose approach sounded like a huge grizzly stomping through thick brush, was in even worse shape, he couldn’t speak at all.

They looked like he felt. _Welcome to the club_. He turned his phone off.

“Brought ‘em…t’ Lucille,” Hardison uttered finally. “To save time.”

“Okay… Parker, Florence. To Lucille. Go get a car.” Nate leaned on a tree, checking the mine. Sophie sat in the mud, in a completely undignified manner.

Florence let out a low keening sound, but she turned around and went after Parker without a word. He wasn’t sure if she was stressed because of the tiresome walking, or because she had been sent to _steal_ a car.

“When I think about it,” Nate breathed, “collapsing silos are perfect. They’ll think their collapsing in the storm un-stabilized everything and caused the pipes burying their two men, not vice versa. We have our asses covered.”

“Ha!” Parker’s voice echoed through Nate’s phone at a high pitch, reaching all of them. Nate put the phone in his pocket with another heavy sigh, covered by the roar of engines. The mine mobsters arrived in two cars and poured out, going quickly into the slaughterhouse.

“Let’s go.” Nate pulled Sophie to her feet. “Hardison, locate the packages with the GPS from my earbud. We pick them up and carry them to the gathering spot. If Parker’s driving Lucille to Lincoln, we’ll be out of here in less than ten minutes. And seriously, do something about that waterproof problem.”

“Dammit, Jim, I’m a doctor, not an engineer!”

“What?”

“How old are you, again? Where the hell do you live, in which universe? Dude, you lack the essential-”

Eliot tuned out Hardison’s speech, noticing how quickly the hacker gained his breath when he caught an opportunity to talk about Star Trek. Then he realized that he actually recognized the reference and shivered.

It was a good thing they all were already stumbling and panting; he could stay behind their backs, and not think about his own speed, and washes of heat and cold.

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***

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Parker didn’t pay any attention to her smaller steps, and Florence had to almost run to catch up with her long stride. Yet, her fear that the mobsters would be awake when they reached Lucille proved to be untrue – Hardison tied them up by a tree near the van, not inside. They were still out, or pretending to be out.

Parker turned the heat on. The wet clothes that hung on them were chilly.

Until now, she was convinced that driving in Lucille with Sophie, backwards on a tiny, muddy path was the worst driving experience in her life. She changed her mind.

Parker drove in the right direction, they were only one minute from the main, broad road… and she literally felt her hair pigment disappearing, going from golden to ashen gray.

It wasn’t so much about the insane speed – the thief kept perfect control of the vehicle – but the manic grin and the glint in her eye. When Sophie drove her, she cast calming glances at her, never losing her gentle smile. Parker’s eyes held hell’s fumes deep under the surface.

Florence caught her seat with both hands, shut her mouth and stared right in front of her. It seemed that less than a minute passed before they reached the first streets of a small city, and Parker slowed down. Her face also lost the manic expression when she glanced at her.

Florence arranged her face into some sort of smile, showing her utter un-distress and coolness, and the thief bonked her fist into her leg, satisfied.

“I knew you would like it,” Parker said, stopping Lucille in a dark space near a small parking lot.

Florence raised one side of her tightly pressed lips. “Yeah, uhm. What now?”

“This one,” Parker pointed to the dark pickup truck parked near them. “Enough room for Sophie, Hardison and me, and two mobsters in the back.”

“May I watch you breaking in?”

“No.” Parker put both her hands on the wheel and remained sitting. Florence waited, not sure about the procedure. Maybe stealing a car demanded mental exercises. She changed her mind when Parker looked at her again, sideways, with her head slightly tilted to one side.

The thief was thinking about something.

Well, great. She had learned enough about them to immediately start fearing that process.

Florence kept silent, not wanting to disturb anything. If Parker wanted to tell her something, it would be wise to let her do it when she was ready. Florence kept her eyes in front of her, but she could feel a turmoil going on in the thief.

“Are you tired?” Parker finally said.

She thought about all the possible replies, and chose a neutral one. “A little bit.” She almost added _why_ , but stopped herself on time.

The darkness around them was very… dark. She shifted uncomfortably, as silence fell again, regretting the destroyed earbuds. Not that she feared Parker… _okay, you will ponder that later_ – but she would definitely feel more relaxed with their voices in her ear.

“So, will you sleep like a baby the entire night?” Parker said.

“Probably.” She now looked at her. “Is it a good or a bad thing?”

“Tonight there’ll be only three of you in the apartment, sleeping there.” A tone in the thief’s voice told her it wasn’t something that made her happy. “And Nate will sleep upstairs.”

This was getting weird. Parker definitely didn’t approve of that, but why, she couldn’t tell.

“It would be better if I’m still there.” Parker’s voice fell a little, she watched her with disturbing concentration. “I rearranged my sleeping hours, sleeping more during the day and evening, being awake at the end of the night and morning. You didn’t. And you’re ‘tired, a little bit’. Nate upstairs.”

Hell no – a new, disturbing thought flashed through her mind – was Parker jealous of her being the only person in the room with Eliot during the night? She froze, thinking quickly, trying to remember if she saw any signs of that. But no, there wasn’t any. Hardison was the only person able to put some warmth in the thief’s eyes. When she watched Eliot, only worry was visible.

“Why is that a problem, Parker?” she asked as precisely as she could.

“Somebody might have to wake him up,” Parker frowned, thinking. “Or at least, be there if he wakes by himself. I did it until now. Now… you’ll be the only one there. So…” she paused, took one long breath, then continued. “Can you do it?”

Oh, that’s why it was so hard for her to start talking – this was about trust. Parker knew that saying this would mean she had trust in her. Some sort of trust. Probably not something normal for androids. The relief she felt brought a natural smile to her face, erasing the frozen one.

“Sure. But why? An alarm clock is forbidden at Leverage Consulting & Associates?”

Parker’s eyes narrowed. _Message received – do not take this lightly_. But why?

“When awakened suddenly, many people react strangely,” Parker said slowly. “Sometimes it’s not safe for the person who does the waking.”

They were getting to somewhere, good. “Any advice?”

“Don’t startle him.” The thief chewed on her lip. “And don’t go close. Let him see you from a distance, but immediately upon opening his eyes. If he doesn’t recognize you in the first five seconds, get Nate ASAP. And stay upstairs until they call you.”

She stared at her. “And if I give him water, he’ll start to reproduce, and become a Gremlin if I feed him after midnight?”

Parker returned an empty stare.

“Right,” she sighed. “No joking, I get it.”

Instead of answering, Parker took the keys from the ignition and tossed them into her lap. The thief was deadly serious, Florence finally figured out – and if she read her strange reactions correctly, she was _worried_. Parker had stopped her from waking him up once, very strict about telling her that _she_ was the only one who did that.

Florence almost smiled when she remembered the thief sitting like the vulture on the lower railings, staring at the sleeping man – she would definitely be startled if she woke up and that was the first thing she saw when she opened her eyes. Though, she did listen to Eliot’s talk with Hardison about the nightmares – maybe it was… she blinked once. Then again.

 _That was it_. Parker _knew_. That’s why she was waking him up, to be the first thing he saw, to show him she was alive and well. She knew he was waking up thinking he killed her with that bullet in her leg, over and over again. She watched their conversation on the cameras, that’s how she saw the mobsters’ arrival in time, and fled. And yes, she now recalled, only after they returned from the slaughterhouse did the thief start to wake him up regularly.

She glanced at the android, at her cold, emotionless face, and smiled. “In case he forgets you aren’t in the apartment,” she said carefully, “The first thing I tell him will be mentioning that you are at your place for the night.”

The quick glance that escaped Parker told her she was on the right track. Her eyes were sharp for a second – damn, she was too quick at connecting things – then she visibly relaxed.

“Yes, do it,” she murmured. Florence realized she had just gotten acceptance; the thief knew that she knew – and that no further questions would be asked.

Parker opened the door and jumped out.

“I got it from here. Go back to them.”

“What? I thought we would drive together… what if you can’t steal a car, in that case I will have to return for you.”

“Just go, and go _now_. I’ll follow you.”

“Okay,” she sighed and started Lucille, hoping she would find the exact forest path and right spot where the others were.

She hadn't even left the block when the dark pickup went past her, flashing its lights, and disappeared into the night and rain.

She cursed breathlessly and pressed the gas pedal.

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***

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Florence deeply regretted not turning off the lights immediately upon stopping Lucille by the pickup. Nate and Hardison were putting one mobster in it, the other one was lying on the ground, awake and squirming. Goon B. She looked at them at the exact moment Eliot kicked him in the head with his heavy boot; the slam was so hard she could hear it in the van.

Her stomach twirled.

She had seen him hitting him before, but this time it was… he was on the ground, and _tied up_. And none of them spared even one glance at the scene, not even Sophie. The grifter sat in the other car, waiting, and after Nate and Hardison put Goon B in it, and they all climbed in, she drove away without a word.

A hit of that strength could kill a man. _Maybe it did_. After all, she had nothing but their word that the two goons would be left somewhere alive so they didn’t mess up tomorrow’s action. And the five mobsters before that. Maybe they had piled the five bodies up in the woods, and were taking those two to them. Her hands went slack on the wheel.

Nate put the packages in the back of Lucille. Eliot stayed at the edge of the light, not moving.

“Florence, move away, I’m driving.” She flinched when Nate opened her door. No way she was going to the back and sitting near the body parts. She moved to the middle seat, avoiding his eyes.

“You alright?”

“Fine,” she said.

He watched her for two seconds, then turned to Eliot. “Ready to go, Eliot.”

They both watched him, waiting. It took four seconds for him to process Nate’s words, and made the first steps to the back of the van.

Nate muttered something under his breath and went to him. She watched him stopping him and turning him to the left, toward the front seats. Eliot just continued in the new direction, like a zombie; his sitting in the passenger seat was more falling into it. He seemed unaware that Nate fastened his seat belt before going back to driver’s seat.

She contemplated sitting by the body parts in the back. After all, they were packed up and closed in.

Nate started the engine, taking Lucille onto the main road.

“What… where are they taking those two mobsters?” she asked carefully when the wheels stopped throwing mud everywhere, and road became broader.

“Hardison will decide. Somewhere far enough to make their return a very long and tiresome walk.” Nate didn’t look at her while replying. “They won’t kill them, Florence. We don’t kill people.”

She twitched. “I knew that.”

“Of course you did.” He smiled now. “Besides, if he wanted to, Eliot could kill them instead of just beating them up. It would be much easier for him, much cleaner, and without any danger for you, or for him.”

She spared a glance to the right; Eliot looked straight ahead. It seemed he wasn’t bothered that they were talking about him as if he wasn’t present. Or maybe he was completely out of it, his mind floating who knows where behind open eyes.

“How on Earth would killing two armed killers be less dangerous for him than beating them?”

“Eliot,” Nate said.

Eliot slowly moved his hand – he _was_ listening – and pushed aside his jacket, showing her a strip of brown leather and two knives.

“You had your knife holster all the time?” she blurted. He just nodded, not turning his head to them.

So he _could_ kill them. He could use her hurricane distraction and just throw two knives, without any effort, without the fight that knocked him down. And _he_ was the killer in the group. If he chose not to do it, then Hardison surely wouldn’t kill anybody. The pressure in her chest released its tight grip, and she darted a grateful smile at Nate.

She settled into comfortable silence, expecting them to do the same. The heat in the van was  high by now, almost to the point of lulling her.

“During the day,” Nate said, a barely audible sharp note in his voice, “you’ll have to go through all the Dvorak Security employees, and memorize their faces. Many of them will be mixed in with the guests at the PVA ceremony, not in their uniforms.” She nodded. He glanced past her. “Eliot, you’ll go through their files and see which ones are the Red and Green guards.”

 “Already done.” The reply came in his normal voice, but with a pause preceding it.

“Counting the first five we left in the woods?” Nate continued. “They are back by now, and they’ll be there too.”

“Counted ‘em.”

She darted a glance under her eyelashes, checking on him. He still looked strictly at the road before them, she could see only his profile and dripping hair. Yet, he didn’t look as if he was freezing. And that wasn’t good.

“Tomorrow… no, today, is Friday,” Nate went on without pause. “By Saturday night, those two will be back, too. Somebody remind me during the day to tell Hardison to make Dvorak Security jackets for all of us.”

After that, they both looked at him. Remind _him_? Florence eyed him suspiciously – Nate chatting wasn’t something regular. He returned an even gaze to her.

Ah. She understood now. Nate had his no-nonsense voice the entire time they'd been talking. There was a certain edge in it, which automatically set the others to a higher level of alertness. This was the equivalent of their most repeated sentence to her: _keep him awake_.

“I presume they all know me,” she said cheerfully. “So, no point in hiding me at the ceremony. Not to mention my dress. The event isn’t just a ceremony, it lasts for hours – interviews, rehearsals, preparations, sound and camera checks - so maybe, but just maybe, I can go with you in normal clothes, bringing dress with me, and change there before the opening. It would be much easier to decide what to do, if you tell me what you are doing there.”

“Nah, nothing special… just protecting you.”

“Right. Sure,” she muttered but let it be. “That action with Knudsen going down… if, by a happy chance, his Red, killer goons go down with him, maybe it won’t be necessary.”

Nate said nothing for some time.

“You don’t think that’s possible?” she asked, more to continue the conversation that kept Eliot present, than to hear his answer. She knew it already.

“Don Lazzara,” Nate said finally. “When… if, Knudsen goes down, he might react. Or not. We can’t know for now.”

“But without Knudsen and his goons, he won’t know about us… they were the ones who know what some of you look like. Take Goon A for example, the ex-cop one. What was his name, again?”

“Wayne Matthias Bauman.”

“He was in the corridor the first night… he saw you two and Sophie, but ran before Hardison and Parker came. He was in the apartment again when he took Hardison and Eliot to the slaughterhouse, so he knows Hardison now, as well.”

“Maybe Parker, too,” Eliot said. He spoke slowly and with effort, but he was speaking. “She was close by when his jacket exploded… I can’t remember it clearly. Ask Hardison.”

“And he was there when I went to see Knudsen, in their building,” she quickly continued. “For Knudsen, killing me may be only business – but that guy _wants_ me dead, after all the trouble we caused him. He was standing there, leaning on the wall, staring at me the entire time, and _smiling_ at me. Scared the shit out of me.”

Nate slowed Lucille down.

Eliot moved his head a little, and glanced at her.

“In a creepy way,” she explained. “Like Betsy. It’s okay when she yells, but when she smiles, that’s nasty. Which reminds me, when is she coming tomorrow?”

He narrowed his eyes instead of answering, and she bit back a chuckle.

“You don’t look scared enough,” he said in a low voice.

She grinned. “Oh, I am. I’m extremely scared all of the time.  At first I thought that constant fear was unbearable, until all these bursts of panic happened – the sniper, the packages, Vivian, the rats, the hurricane from today…” she trailed off when she saw that Eliot’s eyes swiveled past her. She stopped herself from waving her hand in front of his face, remembering how dangerous that might be now. “These short moments of dread and horror now just remind me of how the regular, constant fear isn’t so unbearable, compared to that,” she continued, aware that Nate slowed Lucille even more, and that Eliot wasn’t following her words at all. But he didn’t look as if he was going to pass out, his eyes were _awake_.

She slowly turned to her left to see what he was looking at. At Nate’s face, she realized.

Something was wrong.

“What’s going on?” she asked wearily.

Nate stopped Lucille, and her heart sank.

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***

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She hunched in her seat, not daring to speak at all. Eliot was still looking at Nate, waiting. Even if she didn’t see Nate’s eyebrows furrowed in deep thought, she would know something bad was happening, by reading the compressed tension that Eliot radiated. But he didn’t ask anything, so she waited, too.

Nate finally moved, leaning back in his seat, taking out his phone.

“Hardison,” he said in a dark, low voice. “You and Parker bring your FBI uniforms when you come to the apartment. You’ll have to go to the DNR laboratory building. There is a slight change of plan – you’ll hear everything when you arrive.”

He put the phone down, and took one long breath. They patiently waited for him to exhale it, an even longer process. Just then he looked at them, his dark eyes keen and full of sharp concentration.

“The action in the mine with Knudsen…” he said. “We are going directly into a trap.”

“How?” she whispered, she couldn’t stop herself.

“He knows that Inspector Lohman is fake – better than that, he knows it’s Sophie.” Nate rubbed his forehead. “He played us, making us believe we played him, luring us into a false sense of security. He would be ready for us in the mine.”

She frantically tried to connect what had been said, and his conclusion. “Is it because Goon A was in the corridor the first night and saw Sophie? But you knew that. You were there.”

“No. I knew that, and we avoided him seeing her when she went to speak with Knudsen and Don Lazzara,” he shook his head. “But you said, now, that he was in the lobby, smiling at you when you went to see Knudsen. We had no cameras there at that time, we had just arrived, everything was hurried. We didn’t know he was there as well. If you didn’t tell us now… Who came after you into the lobby to get you out, as Inspector Lohman?”

“Oh,” she said, and her heart sank even deeper. “Sophie. And he saw her.”

“Knudsen agreed to Sophie’s call about the mine inspection because he knew that it’s us trying to bring him down. And he is ready. Waiting for us.”

“So, so…” she stuttered. “What now? Abort everything?” The entire plan had just went to hell, they had nothing. She stared at him while he thought. She recalled him saying that they didn’t have enough time to come up with something new – and that meant Knudsen would still be at their backs, with his men. She clutched her hands in her lap as the old wave of despair rushed over her again.

“No.” Nate said softly. “We won’t abort anything.”

What? He would send them directly to Knudsen who was ready and waiting for them? She opened her mouth. Then shut it.

Nate turned the key again. “Because this is just…” he hesitated. They waited. “…perfect,” he finished with an evil smile.

Eliot covered his eyes with his hand.

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*

 


	45. Chapter 45

 

Chapter 45

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***

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Eliot _could_ think. The only problem with his thoughts was that they formed long sentences with jumbled parts. The end of the sentence, at least for the past ten minutes, had no connection to its beginning, neither in sense nor meaning.

That shit made any conversation a very demanding task.

He was used to varying degrees of physical exhaustion. This one was pretty nasty, with a constant tremble set into his bones, and small shivers deep in every muscle, but it was something he knew how to deal with. Usually. He forgot how weak he was already, before this trip drained him completely. This degree of exhaustion brought, again, a deadly side effect – mental fatigue.

His mind went into a flip every time he tried to make it work. And that was strange, too. He had enough composure to think clearly about everything that had to be done, but his brain was going _la la la la - look, a squirrel_ when he started to execute it.

He spent a minute and a half standing in front of the shelf where Orion and George slept peacefully, side by side. Both of them opened one eye and glanced at him, looking tired – what the hell had they been doing while they were alone? – and he counted their legs and branches. Everything was there. No visible damage anywhere.

He turned around to reach the laptop he left on the bed, to turn it on, and almost fell over.

He would’ve checked his Facebook Legion via phone, but he could not type with his fingers numb and frozen, nor keep it steady enough to not blur the letters.  He wasn’t glad that #SeaOfCrimson had been without supervision for hours while he played in the slaughterhouse.

Besides, Nate had simply snatched his phone from him a few minutes ago, while passing by. He had pushed dry clothes in his hands and turned him towards the bathroom. “Get in there. Change,” Nate’s voice was firm and in ordering mode. _That was cute._ Eliot reached the door and opened it, and just then managed to get pissed off because of his phone being snatched.

He spent some time just watching his hand on the door knob. Then he let it go and turned around. In those ten seconds Nate left the apartment – with his phone, the bastard - so he decided to go to the bed to turn the laptop on.

Good, he had finally settled the actions in the right order. He felt better already, now that he was able to track all of his steps since they arrived, and place himself in present tense.

He waited, standing by the bed, for laptop to boot up, following Florence with his eyes.

She flew all over the room – a little too quickly for his tired eyes – and he couldn’t decipher why she made low, whimpering sounds while preparing her dry clothes. He remembered that she had a short argument with Nate while they came up from Lucille, but he couldn’t tell what it was about.

Nate emerged at the door exactly when he leaned over to type on the laptop, and he heard his pissed off hiss.

“Enough, I said! Bathroom, now. Then bed.” Nate was just one step away all of a sudden, slamming the laptop shut, and he looked at him with indignation. “Florence, stop nagging,” Nate continued. “We _can’t_ leave them in Lucille, for crying out loud!”

He found himself walking to the bathroom again. This time, Nate’s hand was firmly clutching his forearm, directing his steps. He calculated that with this rate of processing information, he would get extremely angry because of that in the next forty-five seconds.

Nate opened the bathroom door and released him. “Stay. Change. Then go to sleep. No laptop.”

And he was gone.

Eliot turned around. Instead of Nate, by the main door stood one package. Nate went to get another one from the van.

Florence was now sitting on the stairs to the upper level, eyeing the package as if it would move and attack her. He squinted when that thought brought up the image of the reddish package jumping towards the stairs on small legs; he really needed to sort himself out, as soon as possible.

He carefully let the dry clothes to fall on the floor, and went back to the bed, to finish his typing.

He almost made it in time. His mind lost focus while he was climbing the two damn treacherous stairs, he got distracted, and he stopped in front of Orion and George again. They were both awake by now, and they watched him with clear disapproval in their eyes. He stared back, trying to remember what Sophie had said about those two – it was some confusing shit, and it escaped him. He could remember only that Sophie was definitely Team George.

When Nate appeared from out of nowhere again, he had a strange aura of distress around him. He even waved his hands in an unnerved manner. Bathroom, blah blah, how many times do I have to – something - blah blah, ridiculous, blah blah, Betsy.

 _Wait, what?!_ He blinked and tried to focus. “You want _what_?”

Nate made a low, vibrating sound deep in his throat. “When I return for the third time, with the third package,” Nate was speaking slowly now. “I want you to be in the bathroom. Is that clear, Eliot?”

“Ah, _that_?” he said gleefully. “Sure.”

Nate rubbed his forehead – with both hands - and went away.

Eliot looked down, into his hands that held the dry clothes again, by some unknown miracle, and thought. _Bathroom, yes, Nate was right_. He was soaking wet. He could do it. He _should_ do it.

 _#SeaOfCrimson. Bathroom. #SeaOfCrimson. Bathroom. Think, Spencer_.

He carefully put all the clothes in his right hand – it hurt like hell – and grabbed the laptop with his left, taking it into the bathroom with him.

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***

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Before he picked up the last package, Nate turned on the stairs and went to McRory’s.

One quick glass of Jack at the bar.  And a second right after that. The third he took slower, in three sips instead of one. That drink managed to partially erase a sharp stab of pain that one, just one fucking thought stabbed him with. Chasing Eliot all over the apartment – and he was more entertained than annoyed – brought back, surprisingly, one _happy_ memory of Sam. A toddler who had just discovered walking, and who was going in every direction at the same time. Most of the time, Nate had to grab him by the diaper to turn him around and direct him away from danger, or stairs, or the kitchen… and Sam would just cheerfully giggle and continue at the same speed.

One day, he knew, he would be able to remember happy times without that pain. But not yet.

He finished the drink, glancing at the cops who were crowding around even at this late hour, and left. He didn’t miss the irony of carrying body parts into his place right under the very nose of Boston law enforcement.

He half expected Eliot to be by the laptop again, but only Florence welcomed him when he returned. Florence’s snickers, to be precise. When he brought in the first package, she sat on the lowest stair. The second package, she climbed up to the middle. Now he could see only her feet, she was sitting on the floor of the upper level.

“They are closed tightly,” he said. “Look, even Orion didn’t smell anything, and he's a cat.”

“It’s not just the smell,” she said, coming down three stairs. “It’s everything else. I can’t sleep, not with a man in _three_ boxes in the same room. Can you?”

“Of course I can. It’s not-”

“So you wouldn’t mind taking them upstairs with you?”

He sighed. “Okay, deal. Why didn’t you take over the upstairs bathroom yet?”

“To tell you that you should go into this one, now.” She glanced at the bed and he followed her eyes. The damn idiot took the laptop with him.

He sighed tiredly. “Okay, go, I’ll take it over from here.” He listened; there was the sound of running water behind the door. That decided if he should wait or not, he quickly went to the door.

“Eliot, I’m coming in.”

A cloud of hot steam hit him in the face when he opened the door. Hot water was running freely into the bathtub, adding to the cloud that was so thick that he had to come in to see better. The heat was heading toward sauna level.

Eliot was sitting on the floor – changed into the new sweatpants, but in the same wet shirt, just unbuttoned, staring at the laptop with blurry eyes. The knife holster hung on the towel rack, within his reach.

Nate waited until he raised his head and recognized him, before he took two more steps and turned the water off.

“Something interesting?” he asked calmly. Eliot was too fixated on that thing he had to finish, and stopping him would just prolong it. He glanced at the screen and twitched. Everything was soaked with steam, the laptop no exception. At least it wasn’t plugged in, so the machine would just bleep and die itself, not electrocuting Eliot in the process, if he saw correctly all the drops on its keyboard and screen.

“Las Vegas crew’s balloons,” came the careful, slow answer. “They are just startin’ the show. Waited for the fireworks.” He looked better, more present than while he stood; sitting was clearly helping.

“Great. I hope someone will record it,” he leaned on the sink, checking the number of pills in the bottles on the counter, with the dosage written in Betsy’s sharp handwriting. He had counted them after the sniper. Now, a double dose of the anti-inflammatory drug was missing, and he couldn’t decide if it was a good or a bad thing. At least it showed him that Eliot took notice of his state.

Nate sat on the toilet seat, put his elbows on his knees, and waited.

Maybe not calling Betsy immediately after the sniper attack was a mistake, he thought watching the small drops dripping from Eliot’s hair, splashing onto the keyboard without him noticing it. This last trip turned him into deranged wreck again, a painful reminder of the first few days after they brought him here. Dr. Sciortino still thought he was unable to stand up. Nate had no idea what to tell the man when the time for the final check came.

He traced new bruises on his torso with his eyes, visible under the open shirt – and he already had a few sets from former fights, in different colors. That, also, would be extremely hard to explain to the surgeon who expected complete immobility.

Tonight, Nate had pushed him as far as he could – and Eliot was still functioning. On sheer will, of course. But that was the most important part.

At this point, the safety of the other team members wasn’t the priority; they would manage. Eliot was the problem that troubled him. Nate had to know, exactly, if Eliot would be able to function the next two days, or if taking him with them would kill him. Literally. His role as the hitter was to deal with all the dangers before they encountered them. The PVA ceremony would put him to a dreadful test. In this state, losing a fight wasn’t just going down – it meant death. One mistake, one slip of concentration, one misjudged movement… Nate could see every outcome too clearly in his mind. He knew the others could, too. Their worry was like a permanent shroud over them, constant, gnawing, and it was getting worse as the hours flew by. He hoped Eliot wouldn’t notice it, taking it just as normal concern about the action – no, hope wasn’t enough. Eliot had to never find out about that, ever. His reaction might be unpredictable. Even he couldn’t say what was going on in his head most of the time, and this combination of a ticking time bomb and a loose cannon was a mastermind's nightmare.

He watched him, trying to see the answers. Trying to find any sign that would tell him that he wouldn’t kill him by letting him go with them… _allowing_ him to go with them.

And he couldn’t tell. His trust mingled with his fear, making any conclusion impossible. It all came down to one, old thing. Eliot was the one who would decide that. And the hitter wasn’t delusional when he decided to continue after the sniper incident, not telling anybody he was worse.

Eliot finally shut the laptop with one satisfied _Ha!_ , making a splashy sound that made Nate flinch. No hiss came from the machine, thank god. “They released the balloons _with_ the fireworks,” Eliot said; his words were just a little slurred. “Used the rockets to light ‘em up. Great show. Damn clever bunch.”

Nate quickly took laptop from him. “We’ll watch it tomorrow,” he said taking it to the living room. He opened it and put it on the coffee table, hoping it would get dry by the time Hardison saw it. When he returned, Eliot was on his feet.

His eyes were glazed and too bright, Nate noticed, watching him trying to decide what to do now, and in which order. For a few seconds he stood completely lost, looking around with visible effort to focus. The PVA ceremony would last for hours, and it would be much more demanding than this slaughterhouse trip, added a small voice in Nate’s head. _Betsy allowed him to be out of the bed only one hour a day_. In the slaughterhouse, Eliot fought two guys, in a quick fight – at the PVA, he would have all of Dvorak Security against him, and who knew how many more regular security and police would swarm the place. A few seconds of this disorientation…

Nate’s smiled twisted just slightly. “No use changing into a dry shirt if you leave the wet bandages under it.” He gave him the right cues in a casual tone, leaning on the door frame. “I’ll leave you to it, okay?”

“Yes, go,” Eliot nodded. He didn’t notice he swayed while doing it.

Nate waited when the hitter didn’t move. “But, it’ll take some time, and I need this bathroom – Florence took the upper one, we won’t see her for hours.” Nate moved closer as he spoke, in two lazy steps. “If I do the wrapping up, we’re done in a minute.” He turned his back on him and opened the cupboards, taking all the dressing and bandages out. He could feel all the pros and cons going through Eliot’s mind. This time, he hoped the mere logic of the situation would prevail.

When he turned around again, when no answer came, he found himself in front of one very, very dirty look. “Sometimes, Nate, your beatin’ around the bush is more annoyin’ than...” He shook his head and grimaced, swaying again. “If you have something to say, do it, but directly.”

“Just like you’re doing? Having something to say, and saying it directly?” he said. “Take that shirt off. You prepare the dressing and I’ll wrap it. Unless you want to talk about something?”

He hoped, this time, the answer would be yes – but he knew how distinctively sensitive the matter of Eliot’s shape and condition was right now. Not as if it was any better on normal days, though.

No answer came. Eliot pulled his left arm out of the sleeve and just shook the shirt off – Nate could tell by his restrained moves that doing this by himself would be, if not impossible, then very, very tiring. He handed him scissors to cut the old bandages, and turned his back to him, busily wiping the steam from the mirrors and cupboards. The mirrors were still foggy, but he could see blood on the white cloth that went directly into the trash can. He could also see, judging by the size of the square, thick dressing that Eliot had prepared before, and now used to cover the wound and stitches, that his vision of a small, neat bullet hole was just slightly wrong. It looked like it could cover a grenade hole. Eliot secured it with stripes of broad plaster; his face, when he finished, was two shades whiter.

Nate put the toilet seat down. “Sit here.” He waited for him to carefully sit down, then threw a towel over his head. “No point in dripping on fresh bandages. Keep it there with your left. Stretch the right arm to the sink, and don’t breathe.”

He smirked, knowing that this set of orders would annoy the hitter immensely, even more than the fact that someone was, what a dread, _helping_ him. He regretted that he wasn’t able to produce the soft cooing sounds which Sophie so perfectly produced – Eliot’s reaction would be priceless. Or, better to say, the number of his own broken bones would be significant.

He didn’t have to see his face set into a permanent scowl to know how pissed off Eliot now was. “Tight enough?” he asked lightly, wrapping the first layer around his back. Judging by the purple bruises that went down to his waist, maybe he should wrap the bandage a few inches wider, to keep those ribs in place, too.

“'T’s okay.” The answer came quieter than he expected, and he shot him one quick glance. Tightening the wide bandages wasn’t as painless as Eliot tried to show him. The deeply carved lines in Eliot’s face loosened up a bit when he went over his shoulder, making a loop that would secure everything in place.

There would be more hitting, and more hits received before all this ended, Nate knew that, stopping after he added a few more layers. The thicker he made it, the better protection it would be – but he forced himself to stop when Eliot raised his left hand. It wasn’t shaking, yet it trembled, as if he was freezing in this sauna. He probably was, he realized, watching his eyes blurring again.

“Ten hour sleep would be nice now, eh?” he said, fastening the ends and putting the rest of the bandaging in the cupboard again.

“Spread out over the next two days… maybe.” Eliot said quietly. Nate watched him in the mirror while making noise in the cupboards; the hitter’s eyelids fluttered. Too many ups and downs in too short of a time – he relaxed automatically when the pain subsided, and when Nate turned around. Now he couldn’t gather himself again as quickly as he wanted. He was no more than a minute from crashing down. _At this point, they wouldn’t have even been in the first third of the PVA Ceremony_.

Nate took a new shirt and gave it to him. “You’re forgetting my plan about a peaceful night,” he said calmly. “No need to stay awake or keep watch.”

Eliot slowly stood up. “There’s always need for that, Nate. No more puttin’ the guard down. That-”

“I would take care of that tonight if it’s all about Knudsen being busy with the search for his two men, and covering that up. But now, when we know he is waiting for us to fall into the trap in the next couple of hours… why would he attack now, when he knows we’re coming to him to die?”

Nate watched him stop putting the shirt on – not because of pain or weakness. Damn, he was _much_ slower. It took more than five seconds for Eliot sort out everything said, and continue with the shirt.  _A f_ _ive-second delayed reaction at the PVA means a bullet in the head._

“Right, because Knudsen did everything just as we wanted him to do.” A small, defiant smile flew over Eliot’s face. Nate knew he would try again to keep himself awake as much as he could. He would do the same – in fact he was planning to keep watch tonight because of him and this fever, not because of mobsters – but it was insane.

“You have only two choices now,” he said seriously. “Sleep and recover from this to be able to go with us to Knudsen. Or, keep watch tonight, and spend the entire day half dead. Here.”

Eliot gave him the most annoyed stare possible, but he held his ground, returning the stare. The hitter knew he was right, or else he wouldn’t be annoyed at all.

“All the surveillance cameras and alarms are on, working,” he continued. “I’ll wake Florence up when I go to sleep, just in case.” At that, Eliot’s eyes quickly narrowed. “Or not, it probably won’t be necessary,” Nate went on without pause. “Unless you want her to be awake.”

“No way,” Eliot lowered his head, buttoning the shirt up, slowly and with visible concentration. “Keep her away.”

“Why?” he asked softly.

Eliot looked at him, and question hung between them. The hitter had no answer to that.

Nate reached with his hand, slowly, very slowly, and took a towel that was forgotten on his shoulder. “Let’s go,” he said gently. “We’ll put you in the bed, and then you’ll decide what to do tonight.”

Eliot nodded, absently, still pondering his question. Nate let him go before him, just in case. _There won’t be anyone to walk behind him at the PVA_.

He kept smiling. “And I will use those minutes Florence is away to brief you on tomorrow’s action – at least, the main time frame. Boring stuff… it’ll put you to sleep in no time.”

He knew there wasn’t anything that would do the same for him, this night.

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***

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The ‘boring stuff’ kept Eliot awake for two hours. The good thing was, it also got him together better than the real ten hours sleep could, and cleared his mind. Or laying down did that; maximum heat in the room, a warm blanket and immobility helped to chase the tremble away from his bones. He felt almost warm.

After a long think and weighing all that was said, he had decided to sleep, to gain some strength for going out, but he couldn’t. He simply sat in the bed, staring into darkness.

Florence was long asleep, and George’s mind seemed to be shut down, too. Orion was awake.

He could see two greenish dots of light as cat stared at him from the sofa’s backrest. He was in the middle of the room, near Florence. Keeping an eye on everything around him.

The last sound from upstairs had been fifteen minutes ago, and he hoped that Nate finally went to sleep. He slowly got up, went around the sofa, while the cat’s eyes followed him, and grabbed his laptop.

He could watch the remaining episodes of the fourth season, instead of worrying himself to death.

After only ten minutes he realized it was in vain. He couldn’t follow the plot. He watched it to be able to talk with the people in his group as a fan, and show some knowledge. This wasn’t helping, he had to leave it for tomorrow. Instead of trying to understand the action, he put the headset on, lowered the volume so he could hear all the sounds in the room, and started the commentaries on the first season.

Orion gave up his watch, climbed down the backrest, and disappeared, probably curling up near Florence to sleep.

The commentaries were fun, yet watching people sitting in front of cameras and answering questions was boring, so he just listened, pulling up the M7 Facebook group. He was very careful; he made only general comments, liked what ought to be liked, and left all the messages for later. He was dizzy, his mind was spinning, and he wasn’t sure he wouldn’t make some mistake. No more plotting tonight. All his plans for the Supernatural and Castle Vote and Promote groups had to wait for daylight and a clear mind. But he had to stay in touch with his people, no matter how he felt; his presence was crucial after this several-hour break.

He gave up on Facebook when he realized that he consequently liked seventeen shirtless pictures, without noticing the pattern, and that he had put nine ‘hearts’ on them.

He went back to the M7 discs.

He was in the middle of an interesting step-by-step fight in some airport hangar – the show had _one_ guy who knew how to fight, thank god – when he heard one quiet meow from the sofa. He turned the volume off and listened. The meow repeated, sounding stressed this time. It was louder and it might wake Florence up, and he definitely wanted to keep her at bay tonight. This fever wasn’t at full strength but it could get worse during the night, and he dreaded that.

He gritted his teeth, cursing breathlessly with every damn move, and crawled – the first few moves almost literally – out of the bed.

Florence was curled on her side, and Orion’s usual sleeping place under her arm was now covered with a blanket. He was sitting and staring at her with despair, letting out quiet, unhappy murmurs.

Eliot looked over the backrest at the same moment that Orion tried to pull the blanket away from her, catching it with his claws. It didn’t move.

The cat looked at him with disturbingly intelligent eyes, with a _message_. He wanted him to help him, to pull the blanket for him so he could sneak in.

No way. He would disturb her, and she needed to rest peacefully. In relative peace, he added when he looked at her face. This wasn’t peaceful sleep, her eyebrows were furrowed, and she seemed tense.

Orion made another soft, murmuring sound, and his paw reached for Florence, this time to her face.

Ah, what the hell… he bent over and grabbed the cat. Orion was alone, in the dark, his human didn’t respond to him, and he wanted a company, somebody to snuggle with. He could give him that.

The beast started to purr immediately, and _licked_ his hand.

“Be quiet,” he growled at him, glancing at George. The plant’s intruder sensors seemed dulled or shut down for the night, he didn’t notice the enemy sneaking behind his defenses. _With insider help_ , he added morosely. He was a Trojan horse in his own castle, for god’s sake.

“Stay there.” He put the cat on the lower part of the bed, and made himself as comfortable as possible. Which wasn’t such a great accomplishment, everything considered. The few steps that he took only reminded him how awfully tiring keeping his eyes open was. He turned the commentaries off and turned Google on, to check ‘cat licking people’.

Apparently, the cat _liked_ him. He almost smiled when he saw that a cat’s purring lowered stress levels in humans, along with other shit. He could use that as a mitigating circumstance and an excuse when George called him on his shit tomorrow. Or Betsy. Or all of the rest together.

Orion marched over the blanket and climbed on his stomach, putting his butt on the laptop. He quickly stopped breathing, extremely grateful that the cat’s front paws were a few centimeters below his bandages. Orion’s face was turned to his, mere inches away, and the cat watched him with expectation in his eyes. “What part of ‘stay there’ did you not-” he whispered but stopped abruptly when Orion head-butted him directly in the face. He spat a few times, feeling fur in his mouth – _eeuw thing_ – and before he could move or react in any way, Orion curled himself between his ribs and his left arm, using his stomach as a pillow. He was out in a second.

He stared at him, feeling half violated, and half awfully soft inside. “This is an exception, not a rule, ya hear me?” he said gruffly. Instead of an answer, his purring grew stronger.

Until now, he didn’t know that cats were capable of pulling ‘puppy eyes’ on humans. Whatever that unhappy look was called in cat’s world, he fell for it. He should really work on his soft spots. He already knew that unhappy people made him twitch inside and urged him to do something – now he added animals to that. Not to mention plants. _Fuck._

There was no point in snarling at the sleeping cat, though he wanted to.

Instead, he carefully lowered the pillows and put away the laptop, listening to the soft purring vibrating through his chest.

There was no way Orion had thirty-two muscles in that small ear, was his last thought before he closed his eyes.

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	46. Chapter 46

Chapter 46

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***

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This morning, the nightmares had no faces. Eliot couldn’t count how many times he woke up, driven by fear and feeling like he was late, desperately late for something important, over and over again.  The fever could’ve been one of the reasons for that.

Waking up was a foggy experience; he felt beaten, dizzy and as tired as he was when he finally managed to fall asleep.

Everything around him was quiet and dark, except for the warm, yellow light in the kitchen. The broken windows still had boards instead of glass, and the others had their blinds tightly shut. Only his mental clock told him that morning was in full swing.

He knew how exhausting this day would be, so he didn’t open his eyes. Getting up could wait until he was able to function, both body and mind.

Well, that was the theory. Somebody else had different ideas about the practice.

He heard Florence in the kitchen. At first, she made breakfast. Her quiet steps were barely discernible when she returned to the sofa, but she didn’t stay there, she sneaked to the bags by the stairs. He listened to the rustling of clothes and unknown things, and some clanging. After that, she came closer and all the noises stopped; she was just standing by the working table and watching him.

He knew she would go away if he remained silent, and she did.

He decided to give himself fifteen more minutes before leaving the bed.

The second time, only one fucking minute later, she came from the shelf, on his right side.

Okay, this was ridiculous. If she wanted to wake him up, she could simply call out to him. He suppressed a sigh and just as he decided to open his eyes, she came closer. The bed moved.

Maybe Orion was somewhere on the lower part of the bed and she only came to take him away, he thought when the bed moved again, this time as if she hit it with something. He was intrigued by now, and certainly completely awake, though he doubted that was her intention. He waited, trying to figure out what she was doing, and what would be her next move.

Then everything happened at the same time – one breathless _fuck_ , hissed and followed by a small strangled squeak, the bed moved a good five inches back, and a pretty loud thump sent vibrations through his chest.

He opened his eyes to one foot reaching vertically behind the lower railings of the bed. He blinked a few times and slowly sat up.

“Parker is in her apartment,” came the voice from the floor.

What the fuck? He got up and took a good look at her. He had no idea how she managed to twist herself into _this_ ; her other leg was trapped between railings, and she hung upside down, with her head almost touching the floor.

“Good morning,” he grinned, he couldn’t help himself. “Do you mind telling me what, _exactly_ , are you doing?”

“Tried to sit on the railing,” she uttered, pissed off. “I put one foot between the two bars to stabilize myself, but the other slipped and I turned over, and got stuck. It looked easy when Parker did it. She said that was the least intrusive way to wake you up.”

“Sure, this was…as light as a feather.”

She casually crossed her arms, an indescribable image. “I have nothing against chatting, but can we wait until I’m out of this?”

“Nope. In the geek world, the first thing you do when something like this happens, is take a picture and put it on Facebook.”

She choked. “That’s not funny!”

“No, it’s sad.” He pulled her up, so she could reach the railings with her hands and climb up by herself. “And it’s also a terrible security risk, but no one seems to care about that.”

She carefully disentangled her foot from the bars and freed herself completely. He couldn’t tell whether she was pink because she'd been hanging upside down, or because she was blushing – but it looked good.

“This never happened, okay?” she murmured, avoiding his grin.

“But of course,” he said and went to the bathroom. He had to take his pills. And to think about what to tell Betsy when he called her.

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***

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When he joined Florence at the dining table he saw his ‘breakfast’ was already waiting for him. Nine energy bars, lined up in perfect order.

“Parker?” he asked, pouring himself coffee.

“She brought them earlier and said you have to eat seven or more. Hardison brought the FBI jackets – do you really impersonate agents, you know that’s a capital offense – and they all left when Sophie arrived.” She fidgeted with her cup of coffee. “Nate also said there was no need for you to come at this early stage. Apparently, while Hardison and Parker do their job, Nate and Sophie will go shopping.”

He took one energy bar and studied ingredients with rising horror.

“They didn’t say what they're going to buy?”

“Something for the Season Six part of the job, not connected to Knudsen. Nate actually agreed to tell me what he is going to do to Knudsen.” She added. “I stopped him. I hope I won’t regret that.”

“You’ve been fishing information from the first day. And you stopped now, two hours before the action?”

She hesitated, thinking. He looked at her better. She was pale and washed-out; her night hadn't been calm either. She was half joking in Lucille when she spoke about the constant fear that she felt, but he knew how troubling that shit was.

“You’re going to run some scam on Knudsen and trick him into something, I get it,” she said slowly. “The point is that he doesn’t figure out what you’re doing, or you’re screwed, right?”

“Something like that, yes.”

“I had enough time to think about that… and I decided to go blindly just like he is. If I figure out what you’re doing, that means he might too. I can be some kind of an early warning system. Besides, guessing Nate’s plot all on my own, finally, would be thrilling.” She raised her eyes from her cup and looked at him directly. “That doesn’t apply when the Season Six part is in question – and that's the main thing that Nate hides from me. Why?”

He worked up an unconvincing smile. “The secrecy adds mystery and grandeur to his plots,” he said softly. “Try to explain one of your best episodes in three sentences, for example. It ruins the expectations, and it’s just a pale shadow of the real deal.”

“You’re full of cr… convincing explanations.” She twitched a smile at him, yet her eyes remained strained.

He wondered what her reaction would be if she found out that she was Nate’s mark and that Season Six was played on her, not on Brewer. Maybe Nate didn’t think that part over enough – she was on the right track, and if she started digging deeper, she might find out every motive behind it. That _wasn’t_ something that they should take lightly.

“Remember one thing for today, able to guess Nate’s plot or not,” he said seriously.  “Whatever happens… don’t panic.”

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***

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“Hardison brought these when he came,” Florence said, showing him newspapers with an article about The Magnificent Seven on the front page. “He was extremely proud about this one – he said it’s not a problem to put articles into the online edition, but to change the printed one a few minutes after it got final approval and was sent to print, well, that required a genius.”

“Typical,” he said absently, playing with the energy bar.

They had sat in silence for the last few minutes before she spoke, because Orion jumped on the table and attacked an energy bar. Florence distracted him with a comb – the beast enjoyed it, judging by the small sounds he produced.

He sat there, watching them, drinking coffee, nothing more. And it wasn’t awkward. It was… nice. She smiled, and cooed, and talked nonsense to the cat. Orion sneaked from her arms in the middle of it and marched across the table to bonk his head at his hand before he returned to Florence to be adored.

He tried, he really tried, to distance himself from that picture, but early morning, coffee, warm dimmed light and her even warmer smile were so, so… he pondered the right word for that. And only ‘domesticity’ came to his mind. That brought an unexpected stab of pain, a twitch of envy, or regret, or simple sorrow – he couldn’t tell.

The worst of all, she must’ve seen or felt that something changed, because she put Orion on the floor, and took the newspapers.

And the only thing he could say was: typical.

Damn, he finally realized… he was _enjoying_ her company. And that small, simple truth stunned him. It was easy when he thought it was just lust – he could handle lust, that wasn’t something new. But he just spent five minutes watching her doing nothing – and he could continue doing that for the next five hours. _Five days, five months, five y_ … Every damn thing she did entertained him, and made him smile inside.

He put a scowl on his face.

 _Two more days_ , he reminded himself – he had to endure this only today, and tomorrow, and this shit would stop.

He checked the time. “Nate will call me when they finish with the DNR building; they are about to begin the action. Do you want to listen to them, or watch the episodes?” _Listen to them_ , he added inwardly; watching the episodes would mean them sitting side by side, sharing that damn thing, and he would have to listen to her again, and again, enjoy it…

“Not only can we listen to them, we can also watch them.” She got up and pressed the remote. “Hardison set up their button cameras to our screens as well as his machines in Lucille. I tried to watch it while you slept, but they weren’t doing anything, their jackets were hung over the seats in the van.”

“They have started by now. Run it.” He got up, taking the earbuds, the surveillance laptop, and energy bars with him – he might even try one, it was easier than lying to Parker – and went to the sofa. He was mid step when he sensed someone watching him, and cursed under his breath, slowly turning around.

George must’ve been pissed off by now. And he looked so damn lonely, standing there alone on the shelf, forgotten. He quickly changed his course and went to him, to bring him to the coffee table.

“Don’t start,” he muttered in a low voice. “Just two more days, and we’ll get rid of them both, okay?”

George watched him with a clear you’re-a-special-kind-of-stupid-aren’t-you? expression.

“Shut up,” he growled. He put him on the floor near his leg, piling Florence’s pillow and blanket in the middle of the sofa, taking the left side for himself. She joined him, bringing coffee, glancing at the wall he built, but taking the right side without any comment.

This was so fucking stupid.

He suppressed an annoyed sigh and decided to concentrate on the screens. They had work to do, after all.

.

.

.

***

.

He calculated the time correctly – Parker and Hardison, both in classic black suits and FBI windbreakers were just elegantly grifting their way into the building.  The Department of Natural Resources had the standard security for all government buildings, good and reliable, yet he wasn’t worried they were there alone.

They had played agents Thomas and Hagen so many times, they could teach at Quantico if necessary. Besides, Nate and Sophie were ready in a getaway car, and if anything went wrong, they would jump in.

Florence didn’t know that, she stared with wide open eyes at the two agents who were chatting with an old security guy, very quickly turning him into a lifelong friend. The guard was reacting more to Parker who made a perfect balance between professional and extremely cute, so Hardison took a few steps back, pretending he was checking something on his tablet. After he pressed a few keys, their screens divided, and the upper right corner screen showed them a black and white recording from the lobby security camera.

Florence gasped when she saw three square packages on the floor near Parker. “They brought them… _him_ … why?”

“Not the body parts,” Eliot said shortly. “Just the air pollution monitors from around the mine.”

She frowned, thinking quickly; he could clearly see how her decision to not know anything that Knudsen didn’t know faltered.

Parker’s voice in their earbuds continued to enthrall the poor guard, deeper than her usual voice. Yet, the guard’s body language told him that his answer would be _no_ , even before he actually said it.

“No, Ma’am, you don’t know Commissioner Kimmell – you can be FBI and CIA together, but if she doesn’t approve, no work can be done here,” the guard shook his head. “And she ain’t here yet – you’ll have to wait.”

“Don’t press, Parker, back off,” Nate’s voice warned them. “No need to hurry, mingle around while waiting.”

“Waiting won’t be a problem,” Parker smiled and leaned comfortably on the guard’s desk, and her smile flashed. “But, coffee first. Can you direct my colleague to the nearest machine?”

Florence looked at him. “Does some unknown woman in the DNR, no matter how high her position is, have authority over the FBI?”

“Nope. But that’s the guard speaking, not her. When you don’t know what to do, wait for someone who will tell you. I doubt they have official FBI visits very often, he must be in a panic by now. Parker could press and get in, but this is better, the guard will being eating out of her hand in the next five minutes. That, sometimes, can be crucial, if shit happens and that same guard has to pull a gun on her.”

“Hey! We won’t mention pulling guns on anybody today,” Hardison murmured; his button camera showing a jumpy recording while he walked through the one corridor. “Okay, Nate, an empty office is in sight. I’ll need three minutes, no more. Parker?”

“I’ll be delighted to hear everything about that drama,” she chirped to the guard. “And then I’ll tell you how we deal with trespassing teenagers.”

“Hardison, try to finish before she scares the guard insane, will you?” Nate said.

“On it,” Hardison hastened his steps.

Hardison’s camera showed them his entering the office and plugging in a small flash drive; because of the angle, when he started typing they could see only the keyboard, and just the lower part of the screen.

Parker was listening to the guard’s explanation with wide eyes.

Florence’s eyes weren’t wide open, Eliot noticed when he glanced over to see what she was watching – she was looking at him, not the screens, thoughtfully and with her eyebrows just slightly furrowed.

“What?”

She tilted her head. “And how are you feeling, emotionally?”

 _What_?! He twitched, turning to her in disbelief. “What?!”

Hardison’s low chuckle didn’t help.

“How. are you feeling. emotionally?” For god’s sake, she _repeated_ it, with careful enunciation, as if he didn’t hear or understand the question.

Parker glanced at the security camera and grinned.

He quickly turned their side of the feed off, gritting his teeth as he imagined their comments later. “You can’t just ask people things like that!”

“Why?”

“Because, because, it’s… it isn’t… it’s just... You can’t!”

She raised her eyebrows in a disturbingly calm manner. “Oh, you mean, if you’re not used to questions of that sort, that means no one should ask them, ever?” She shook her head. “Okay, let me rephrase that. Will your response to their solo action be the same, or different, as the one you had when they went into the C4 building?”

“And why couldn’t you just ask if I would crush another window?”

She blinked. He had a feeling that this conversation was slipping from his hands. “And that,” said Florence, “would be considered a normal question to you?”

“What’s wrong with _that_ question?”

“What’s wrong with _mine_?”

“Eliot, get back online,” Nate’s voice stopped their frustrated staring, and he returned them to the communication feed.

“I’m here. What do you want?”

“Hardison talked with the President of Concerned Lincoln Citizens earlier this morning – they were planning demonstrations in front of the mine for today. He warned them to stay far enough back to not get involved, but close enough if we need witnesses. They know only that an unknown group of equally concerned citizens plans to get Knudsen into trouble. Hardison transferred all the important numbers into your phone. You already have Bonnano’s direct number. Arrange with them to call the State Police and report a suspicious bag with a possible explosive device, left near their tents.”

“Isn’t it too early?”

“Nope – Bonnano has the means to prolong examination of the bag – it’s enough to take a few statements, more, if necessary, and he will be ready to act, and be near. By the way, Sophie asks if you prefer a blue or silver tie on a black suit?”

“What? Where is she? You were supposed to be in Luci-”

“I am,” Nate sighed. “She got bored, saw some fancy shop, and wandered away.”

“Just great,” he sighed back. “PVA clothes? She's shopping in the middle of – tell her to hurry up, will you? I’m off,” he disconnected his line before Nate remembered to ask about the tie again.

“You know, if you want, you _may_ smash windows,” Florence’s voice was suddenly full of understanding. He glared at her. She made an immense effort not to grin. Orion jumped onto the fort he built on the sofa, and sneaked to his side to cuddle.

He had a feeling that even shopping with Sophie would be better than this.

George was quietly growling, cornered and trapped too near the cat.

.

.

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***

.

Today, Florence herself wanted to smash windows to dust, though she managed to keep a light smile on her face. For no particular reason, except she knew it would feel good, and get rid of at least a little of this pressure she felt. They didn’t seem to be any extra worried because they had finally started the action to bring Knudsen down. She, on the other hand, had to physically restrain herself from biting her nails, because she knew she wouldn’t stop if she started.

When they had broken into the C4 building, which ended in shooting, she was worried and scared. Now, while they were only grifting their way in, with a guard that didn’t seem to have a gun at all, she was in panic. Maybe it was just her mental state deranging into an unstable wreck, every shock she lived through shaking her up further, she thought while trying to keep calm and act normally.

It was the first time she watched Parker and Hardison doing that grifting thing, and she studied the confidence that radiated from them – even Parker was a completely different person. She knew she would stutter and blush, and feel stupid if she had to act that way, and her respect for them jumped to an entirely new level.

And she wasn’t any nearer to guessing Nate’s plan than she was when Nate left with the others. “Don’t worry, the Concerned Lincoln Citizens will help.” That was the last thing he said, as if that should’ve eased her fears.

Help with what, and how? Being there, near but not too near? Knudsen’s mobsters had _silencers_ , and the mine was two hundred meters away from the place where they were demonstrating with their silly tents. And Bonnano among their tents was as useful as Bonnano in Boston – Knudsen had the means and men to hide the bodies within minutes.

She knew nothing, and that was pissing her off, on top of screaming on the inside with panic.

She watched Eliot speaking to some guy and woman named Randy and Brandy – the third one would be Candy, she would bet - explaining how and what to say when they called the State Police. He was also acting, grifting, whatever, because his voice had become warm and friendly, colored with a smile – the voice of someone whom you could trust, whom you _wanted_ to trust. She stopped listening to him when she realized how easy it was for him to make people do what he wanted. And before she started to ask herself how much of that had been used on her, and when.

At the same time Hardison finished with their computer – uploading or downloading, she didn’t know – and the hacker spoke again. “Okay, Parker, you can start with concrete things, I'll be there in a minute.”

“Nate, what was he doing?” she asked quietly, not to disturb Eliot’s conversation.

“Accessing their server and changing a few dates. The sand excavation camp monitors were due in a few days – he moved the collection date to today.”

“Oh. Thanks.” And she knew precisely what she knew before – nothing.

The guard, visibly feeling bad for stalling the nice young agent, offered to call the mysterious Commissioner Kimmell, to see how long they would have to wait. She watched Hardison, who just arrived back in the lobby, take the call after the guard’s initial explanation; the hacker leaned on the desk with one elbow.

“Yes, good day to you too, Madam Commissioner.” At his first sentence, Florence quickly grabbed some papers from the table, ready to take notes. “I’ll try to be as precise as I can, we both have no time to waste. Our Department has an ongoing investigation on the mine your employee already told you about. I can not speak freely, I hope you understand, so I’ll give you only the short version that led to our demand. We, and I speak generally, monitored suspicious activities of unknown subjects in the forest around the mine. The unknown subject approached one of your air pollution monitors and took, for now, unknown action with it.  For the sake of our investigation we let him go, but we sent our forensic team to seal the monitor. We do not, I repeat, _do not_ want to interfere in your jurisdiction – the sealed monitor has been delivered to your building with an escort. It’s of extreme importance that your team does all the necessary tests and analyses today. The remaining two monitors were put under surveillance; we planned to keep the watch and inform you immediately if unknown subjects try to approach them during the day, but we thought better of it and brought them with us too, in case you needed control measurements to compare this one with the two that were untouched.” Hardison finished his monologue – Florence really wondered if they wrote those speeches first and learned them, or if they simply improvised… and all of them, including even the guard, waited for the reply.

“Bureaucracy bullshit at its best,” a lazy female voice said – she sounded she was like chewing something, probably breakfast. “Now, Agent - tell me in one normal sentence what’s up, and what do you want.”

“ _Thank you_ , Madam.” Hardison sounded really grateful, his smile colored his words. “Take the monitor and tell us what that guy did with it, so we can bust him. We could do it, but it’s yours – you’ll do it faster, and you have previous results so you can compare if something’s wrong.”

“Why’s it so urgent?”

“Off the record – we believe Knudsen tampers with the readings and you've had fake results for some time – that’s just one part of our investigation – and with the possibility of critical pollution, one day can mean life or death for many people.”

They all waited, again, while the Commissioner thought. The chewing sounds continued.

“So, the monitor that your _unknown subject_ tampered with is there? And the two monitors that were not touched? Are they marked and separated, or will we have to guess which one is which?”

“Everything by the book, Madam. We would have left the two of them in position, but your collection day for Knudsen’s mine is today, so we spared you some time. They should show you the correct weekly dose, so you can compare.”

“I’ll see what I can do. I’ll call you.” With that, she ended the call.

Florence watched Hardison and Parker giving the packages to two lab technicians that the guard called, and signing papers – one package went left down the corridor, two to the right. Parker chirped goodbyes to the guard, and they left less than two minutes later.

“Not bad.” Nate sounded satisfied.

“And what if she said no?” Florence quickly asked.

“Oh, but she couldn’t. When the FBI brings a case, with all the necessary papers – Hardison is very thorough when that’s in question–”

“In everything, Nate, everything,” Hardison’s jumped in.

“–as I said, she couldn’t refuse to take it. But she is clever and experienced enough to turn it into ‘her Department doing a favor for the FBI’. Both parties satisfied, successful cooperation, and we all win.”

“And what now?” Florence said.

“Now we can head for the mine. No hurry - Sophie is still shopping.”

“Great,” she said, her voice just a little squeaky. So casual – we head for the mine – to the gun-holding mobsters who knew Sophie was coming as Inspector Lohman for the inspection, and who were eagerly waiting to kill them all.

She cut her comm from the others and turned around, just then noticing that Eliot had finished talking with the Concerned Lincoln Citizens. Eliot was nowhere to be seen.

She got busy with her notes. She tried to sort out everything that had been said and done, and she still couldn’t grasp the main plan. She hoped that Knudsen would have the same problem when it came to the real deal, when they arrived.

Eliot emerging from the bathroom stirred her thinking. He was fully dressed.

“Time to go. Get ready.”

Her stomach ached. She was dressed and ready to go already. Why had she been so damn cold when she went to talk to Knudsen in his lair, alone, and now, going with them to get rid of the threat, were her hands shaking?

“Now, as in _now_?” Her voice faltered and she hated herself for that.

“One hour drive to the mine. The things are set and started, but we have to give ‘em time to roll on their own speed, and have a margin for possible delays. So, no need to rush – just prepare yourself.”

She nodded, playing with the papers. Yesterday’s random crying attacks post sniper had subsided, but she still felt a lump in her throat. She definitely had to include real reactions in her heroes' behavior – though she couldn’t imagine how she would justify Chris or Vin randomly bursting into tears because they were stressed. She was only sure about one thing – her Season Six, if she got it - and she doubted that - would be very, very different from the previous ones.

She watched Eliot, trying to judge his shape. He went to the working table to check three of Hardison’s laptops that were constantly working. Nothing in his moves revealed that the hour he was allowed to be out of bed was just ending, but she knew it meant nothing. He prepared his laptop and the phone.

“I’m driving, so you can vote?” she asked.

“Yep.”

“Nate knows that Knudsen’s tampering with the monitors will only get him a penalty, right?” she went on. “He will pay an astronomical fine, and just continue.”

“Yep.”

“But Nate plans to do both jobs now – destroy Knudsen, and destroy the mine, for good?”

“Yep.”

He sat on the working table while answering, surrounded by fish floating on the three screens.

“Hardison and Parker did something to the one monitor they said it was tampered with?”

“Nope.”

“And you won’t tell me anything concrete, because I wanted to go blindly?” she said.

“Yep,” now he smiled.

She took one deep, calming breath. “You don’t have your knife holster.”

“Yep.”

“Why? They are _waiting_ for us. Knudsen will be there, with many of his men, ready for us, and for you. Why?”

He thought for a moment. “Bringing two knives to a gun fight would be…” he frowned, thinking “…overkill,” he finished softly.

She closed her eyes, counted to ten, thinking how his scaring her had been so much better than this shit. But the urge to hit him with something erased the lump in her throat.

She got up, thrusting her papers in her pocket. “Hell with that,” she growled. “Let’s go.”

She _hated_ the small smirk on his face.

_Okay, she didn’t._

But almost.

 

*

 

 


	47. Chapter 47

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is written mainly for Fanfiction.net readers and my correspondence with them, but I'll put it here too, to avoid future eventual questions.
> 
> As always when the plot thickens and questions rise, I have to explain a few things and answer your questions. I usually do it in messages, but when they are repeated ( and new people who started reading late ask the same questions) it’s useful to put all of it in Notes.  
> All of you are divided into two categories: ones who care about eventual Flo/Eliot romance, and the ones who don’t give a damn. And I have to write for both of you. Whining about ‘too much of something, or too few/not enough of something’ surely won’t make me do as you wish, on the contrary :D It makes my fangs grow.  
> After the initial chapters, this story is SET. All the major plot points are decided, and what will happen, when and where, except a few motives and subplots that have to wait to be placed in the right surroundings/time/ feeling.  
> I try to write a canon story (forget all definitions of canon) – I simply try to write it like an episode between two episodes shown during the Leverage seasons. TORJ was placed after The Lonely Hearts Job, and these stories fill the gap between that and The Gold Job. When this ends (and maybe another one after TSSJ) they would simply continue on with the remaining episodes of the fourth season. Nothing would change.  
> That makes the romance part of the fandom sad, but you will have your happy ending, sort of, adjusted to them, to the circumstances, to the rules, and to my decisions. In fact, I’m working hard to past skip my own rules – and you’ll be satisfied.  
> The plot part of the fandom – I’m hopelessly buried in the PVA part of it. Don’t think that this chapter’s dealing with Knudsen is something crucial. Nope, Nate is just practicing and warming up. We have to play out the Siren’s Song (the first thing when he finds out what the hell it is) :D I will try to make the finale better than TORJ’s Estrella mess, but I can’t promise that. There will be tension and drama, and angst and lasers and shit, but only as much as the situation allows – I won’t try to artificially raise it. That never works.   
> Another very present question – Jethro. Poor Jethro, I really feel sorry for the guy. No, he isn’t Knudsen’s mole, and I won’t kill him, nor will he die on an airplane from New Zealand, etc. (though it’s, sometimes, very tempting). The first rule of writing is never make it easy for your characters. The problem with that is that you’re in trouble when you have to solve all the shit you put on their shoulders – but they often solve it themselves, if you let them think and behave as they would. For now, Jethro is Flo’s problem – I have enough of my own, I won’t interfere in her musings.  
> I’m trying to give something to every part of the fandom (humor, hurt&comfort, action, romance, angst, family, case!fic, etc., etc.) and if you feel you’re not getting enough of your preferred genre, just think that it could be worse :D If I wrote this one as I would write it for myself, by the rules, it would be finished already, and it would be 120K words maximum.  
> To Parker/Eliot part of the fandom… stop, please, stop. :D I love you immensely, and one day I might write something for you, to get you off my back, but not in this story.   
> The same goes for N/S and P/H parts of the fandom – what part of ‘Eliot-centric story’ did you not understand? WHERE am I supposed to put their scenes, WHERE? Look at this monster, it already has almost a quarter of a million words, I simply can’t put their relationships in scenes. Not that I don’t want to – I simply CAN NOT.  
> What else? Nah, I think I covered the main questions and problems. (and no, your religious beliefs do not interest me, I won’t adjust their thinking or behavior according to them. Just sayin').  
> Trust me, people, if I could, I would give to all of you exactly what you want and need ( that’s one of the reasons I put the romance in this one – or I should say, allowed that to happen when the two of them started to act strangely. :D ) And I enjoy reading your suggestions and wishes and all – it’s very useful for my future stories. I maybe can’t do it now, but all that you say is always remembered and counted, and taken into consideration. After all, I write for you, not for myself :D.  
> Thank you for listening… I don’t ramble often, but as you can see, when I start I can’t stop :D  
> I think I’ll have one more panicky rambling when the PVA starts – until then you’re safe.  
> Thank you.

Chapter 47

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***

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Florence drove in circles around Boston, keeping the Challenger right above the speed limit. She wondered how these people felt while driving, knowing that almost every control could end with an arrest, unless they carried false IDs all the time. They were able to keep themselves under the radar, but always on the edge, always knowing they were wanted and hunted.

She took out her earbud. Nate and Sophie chatting was distracting her, and she was painfully aware she had to be extra careful in traffic. They had more time than she thought, because Nate had told them to stall when he spoke to them the last time, before he continued quarreling with Sophie about his suit.

Eliot was voting, sitting in the passenger seat – she knew he was listening to all of them all the time, and that revealed the seriousness of the situation, something he tried to hide with relaxed disinterest.

And Nate telling her to delay their arrival could suggest that things weren’t going completely well for them.

“Damn.” Eliot’s quiet word stirred her from her worried thinking, and she quickly looked at him. He stared blindly in front of him, laptop forgotten for a second.

“What?” she asked wearily.

“Betsy,” he said. “I forgot to call her and tell her not to come.”

“Well, call her now.”

“From the running car?” he shook his head. “No, I’ll check if she’s working this morning first – if she’s at Mass Gen, I’ll have enough time to call her from the apartment when we get back and avoid any suspicion.” He pulled out his phone and dialed a number – she saw he had it in its memory.

“Massachusetts General, how can I help you?” she heard a slightly muffled, but clearly female voice.

“Good day. I have to know the working shift of one of your colleagues – I can’t reach her on her cell. Her name-”

“Well, well, that voice sounds familiar,” the woman suddenly smirked. “Matt, isn’t it? Or should I say-”

“I wouldn’t say – wait, did you say Mass Gen? I was trying to get Mass Gen Store – my mistake. Good day.” He quickly ended the call, with a hissed curse, and she spared one more glance.

“Hundreds, hundreds of nurses in Mass Gen, and I had to stumble on Janice,” he muttered, hitting another number. “I’ll call the SICU directly – if Betsy answers, I’ll know she’s there, that’ll be enough.”

“Massachusetts General, SICU, how can I help you?”  This young voice had nothing in common with Betsy’s, even Florence could tell that at once.

“Yes, Ma’am, I’m looking for-”

“Daniel? Daniel Crane?” the nurse quickly stopped him.

“Wrong number,” he growled, ending the call with a pissed off click. He rubbed his forehead with a sigh. “That was Rosalie,” he added.

Florence kept a silent, serious face.

“Don’t laugh.”

“Oh, I won’t,” she said. “So, Matt, Daniel, you made a really good impression if they’re able to recognize your voice after only a few words.”

“I have a very distinctive voice.” His low grumble put all her efforts to the test.

“You didn’t try to kill them, too, at some point?”

“What? No! I just… it was just a little grifting, nothing serious. I had to escape from that damn place, remember? They were-” he suddenly stopped, listening. He motioned for her to put her earbud in, and she quickly did it.

“- can turn toward the mine now,” Nate was just finishing his sentence.

“We’ll be there a few minutes before you,” Parker said. Just then Florence realized they weren’t all in Lucille, they were driving in two separate cars.

Fear returned, gnawing at her with renewed strength.

She turned the wheel and headed to out of town, to the too well known road.

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***

.

Eliot could feel the slight tension in all of their voices, even Nate’s, but he knew Florence couldn’t. He was pretty lousy at hiding his own trembling nerves, he always had been, so he just kept himself busy and silent. The last thing he needed was more questions about his _emotional_ state. Jesus. No matter how annoying and pushy they were sometimes, they knew the lines they weren't allowed to cross, knew what and when to ask, and most of all, when to stop. This, this… woman – she didn’t even notice that she had asked something unheard of.

Sulking in silence made him feel stupid, but thinking about that kept him from worrying and going through all the phases of the plan, counting all the risky points and everything that could go wrong. He really envied Florence because she chose not to know anything, but he could see that didn’t help her too much.

She was visibly frightened. And that worried him even more.

“Whatever happens, you’re not allowed to interfere with anything,” he said when they closed in, slowly approaching the spot they had stopped the time before.

“Why?”

Jesus, the constant _why_ after everything he said was driving him nuts. _Because I said so_ clearly wasn’t a good enough answer.

“Because nothing will happen. But if it happens-” he stopped, realizing he was talking nonsense, and tried a different approach. “Keep in mind that what you see isn’t always what’s really happening. In any case, you’ll stay away from it, okay? And don’t ask why, because I’ll tell you “because I said so” and finish this talk.”

“What?”

He looked at her. Her tone was only faintly mocking. Good. Frightened, but not panicking. He liked people who had the strength to joke at difficult times. They weren’t the ones who ran into danger doing stupid things.

She erased her light smile when she stopped the Challenger near Lucille, which was already waiting there, and turned the engine off.

Hardison came out to meet them, holding his tablet in one hand.

“The weather report said it would be constant rain,” the hacker said, raising his other arm. Not even one drop fell on his palm. “I still suggest hurrying this up.”

“Nate, where are you?” Eliot asked.

“This is the main road to the entrance of the mine, we are approaching the tents of the Concerned Lincoln Citizens.” His tone was official, as if he was reading it from a paper. “We shall stop there for a few minutes and speak with them.”

“Somebody is with you,” Florence whispered, realizing it at the same time.

“It’s a part of the plan,” Eliot said quickly.

Hardison took his jacket from the van. “I’m going to my position. Parker is already settled and waiting. Florence, you’ll stay in Lucille – you’ll have all the cameras that we planted yesterday on the screens, and you’ll hear and see everything. Lock the door. By the way, I forgot to mention it before… Knudsen is here, he is ready. His Corvette is parked in the front parking lot, and he's in the main building with the rest of his men. I couldn’t count them exactly, the images were too small and they were going in and out, but I guess ten of them are definitely there.”

“Not enough,” Eliot shook his head.

“I know, but it’ll do. For now.” Hardison turned around and disappeared in the bushes surrounding them.

“Not _enough_?” Florence whispered. He just shrugged instead of an answer. It would take too long to explain.

“Get in, I have to go.”

“You mean you’ll go and leave me here alone, and I can’t go with you? What are you going to do there?”

“Nothing. I have nothing to do – but I have to be close, just in case.”

“Will there be any shooting, or danger, or fighting, or…”

“No. But I have to be near Sophie, to remove her or shield her in case things go south. It’s always possible.”

“But they know you!”

“That’s kind of the point,” he smiled and left.

.

.

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***

.

Eliot had at least ten minutes of walking through the woods, but this time it was daylight, and that spared him a lot of troublesome stumbling. Yet he had to hurry – their time frame was very tight and it depended on many different circumstances. He surely couldn’t allow adding himself to the list of troubles.

He went around the collapsed silos and approached the mine from the north, from the opposite side of the main entrance, avoiding the slaughterhouse completely.

It looked like any normal, busy working Friday – trucks were going in and out, people were working with machines in the excavation area that ran deep into the slope of the hill, and none of those workers paid any attention to him. He could walk among them freely – the best sign they were used to many people in non-working clothes circulating the site. He snatched, just in case, one bright orange vest that all the workers wore.

“Nate… I’m in,” he said. His own voice scared him – he sounded breathless, like he had run five miles, and not been walking slowly. “Excavation part is clear… all the mobsters are at the front side… toward main gate and main buildings.” He paused, tried to slow his breathing. “How many orange work suits you see in the front?”

He waited for the answer, moving away from that area, avoiding two trucks that were maneuvering in the space between parking lots.

“None for now, and that’s good, we don’t want them to get involved,” Nate said quietly. “We are coming in the driveway. You have thirty seconds to get closer, no more.”

“Almost there – approaching the main building from the back.”

Hardison’s voice trailed in. “And I can see you. Parker put two cameras covering the front of the main building, stay there, all of you. Eliot, don’t forget to watch your back – all the buildings behind the main one, containers and facilities, are administrative, there will be no workers. You can expect more mobsters in there.”

“Seriously!? I have to watch my ba-”

“A question,” Florence broke in, talking over his annoyed words. “Wouldn’t it be better if there are regular workers near you?  Then Knudsen couldn’t openly do anything illegal.”

“No, it would only complicate things,” Nate said. The running engine in the background stopped. They had arrived and parked.

Eliot got to his position right at that moment. He found one good spot to the left of the main building, behind a huge pile of building material and spare parts that looked like caterpillar tracks. He lowered himself behind it, resisting the urge to just sit down and close his eyes; allowing himself to relax now could prove to be a fatal mistake, no matter how weak he was.

He had his back covered – thank you, Hardison, he would never remember to do that without him – and he could see the broad driveway and the main door of the building Knudsen was in. With six stairs up to a veranda, the scene looked like a prop from an old western movie. The squishing of the sand below his feet added to that image.

Well, the gunfighters stopped their bright red, old Corvette just two meters from Knudsen’s identical one, and they waited for their opponent to come out and take the challenge.

He sighed, and prepared himself, glancing at his watch.

High noon.

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***

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Florence spent the first few minutes in Lucille desperately searching for any kind of weapon. In vain. She only found the bags of new clothes Sophie bought while they waited, piled in the back. She gave up and returned to the table with the screens, to not miss anything, and just in time.

She watched the second Corvette being parked – couldn’t they steal something less flashy, for god’s sake – and three people climbing out.

Sophie was dressed as her Inspector Lohman persona was dressed the last time, with strange hair and glasses. Nate was in his usual suit, nothing particular, except the dark glasses that were obnoxious under the heavy cloudy sky… and the third one…

_That_ was Nate’s brilliant plan?! She was looking at some unfamiliar woman dressed in jeans and a jacket, with a flowery scarf covering her hair. She couldn’t believe that Nate thought that stopping by the Concerned Lincoln Citizens’ tents and picking up some random Randy-Brandy-Candy woman and bringing her as a witness would make any difference. As if killing some innocent bystander was ever a problem for a mob.

Her fear ignited into real panic. She suppressed a whimpering sound, biting her knuckles, as dread paralyzed her.

Knudsen would just kill them all and bury them under the rotten food.

“Parker, if you’re done, you can return to Florence,” Nate said in a low voice. Brandy-Randy obviously hadn't been informed about the comms and other people around. _Poor woman_. “Hardison, are you in the slaughterhouse yet?”

“In a minute, I’m going around.”

Good, at least Parker and Hardison were out of the line of fire, Florence thought.  If Knudsen didn’t kill the rest of them immediately, maybe they would be able to come up with something to save them.

She was the first one to notice a movement on the edge of the clearing – the camera had a broad line of sight and she could see the better part of the mine's working section in the background. She checked it to see if there was any chance for some of the workers to come closer and obstruct the intention to kill, but the shit had just started.  “Nate, to your right and behind you,” she squeaked when at first one, then two more giant, yellow dump trucks stopped and parked. Nothing unusual in a busy mine, no one would pay any attention to that… but they had completely cut off that part from the rest. None of the workers could see anything that was happening in front of the main building. The three drivers stayed in their cabs, watching them all from up high. And smiling.

Knudsen was smiling too.

When she looked at the middle again, he was there, on the veranda.  A young, brilliant, handsome, arctic-eyed man in an expensive suit, followed by five men that came out after him and fanned out behind his back. They were in suits, too, and she knew they were heavily armed.

She buried her face in her hands, forcing herself to say nothing; three quiet plops, from the guns with silencers, and one more when Eliot charged them, and it would all be finished.

“Good morning, Inspector Lohman,” Knudsen said gleefully – just then Florence remembered what Nate had told them about him. He enjoyed playing games. He would wait to see their move before he killed them; he was curious.

Sophie didn’t approach him, she stayed a few meters away from the veranda stairs.

“I’m not Inspector Lohman. You’re mistaken, Mr. Knudsen,” she said in a voice completely different from the nasally drawl she used before, a high class British accent echoing from every note.

Knudsen’s face shone with delight. “Oh my, this is great,” he said with sincere joy. “Please, do tell me who you are and what you want, but do it as quickly as you can – I’m going to kill you all and unfortunately, I have only five minutes to do that.”

His men pulled out their guns, and stood ready.

Nate slowly turned around, turning his back on them, and Florence quickly checked what he was looking at – a front, smaller parking lot behind them. She recognized Knudsen’s Corvette there along with theirs, but there weren’t any more mobsters. For now, they weren’t completely surrounded, and her hope rose. Maybe Eliot would be able to do something, some kind of diversion, to give them a chance to escape. But that would certainly kill him.

“I represent a group of citizens who are trying to end your mine,” Sophie said calmly.

Nate turned to the Knudsen again. “Eliot,” he said quietly. “Five is not enough.”

“Yeah, I see,” Eliot’s voice was followed by a resigned sigh. She saw a shadow in the corner of her feed – Eliot was retreating deeper in the background. “I’ll try to bring a few more, but don’t expect any miracles.”

A few more _what_? He couldn’t mean a few more mobsters. But he said before that even ten mobsters weren’t _enough_.

She jumped, startled, at the sound of something slamming behind her and spun the chair around to see Parker, who had just entered.  The thief rummaged in the back of the van for a few seconds – maybe she knew some weapon that she missed – but Parker pulled out of nowhere a bowl with the marzipan balls they took the day before, and joined her at the table.

The blond put one ball in her mouth and grinned. “Do you w’nt one?” she said.

Florence stared at her cheerful smile.

_What the fuck was going on here_?

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***

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Eliot had more luck than he expected. He thought he would have to storm into the back buildings in search of Knudsen’s remaining men, but Knudsen was cautious – they were close, waiting for the boss to call them. Invisible, but ready to come to the front line if needed.

He had lost only a few seconds before he almost bumped into three of them, and jumped back with a startled “Fuck!” They were unknown, none of them was an Alphabet Goon. That wasn’t good – he hoped they would get rid of them all in this takedown, especially Goon A and Goon C. Goon A was too experienced and dangerous to be left around, and Goon C was still a threat with his sniper.

“You, stop, stay where you a-”

He turned around and jumped around the corner, bringing them after him – he was pretty sure they wouldn’t fire this close to the building without a direct Knudsen’s order.

He couldn’t run, he was too slow, and they had no trouble being just one step behind him. He took only ten steps before one of them dived after him, tackling him and knocking him to the ground.

He landed with a heavy thud that sent bolts of pain shooting though him, and he didn’t have to pretend he was stunned, unable to breathe or move for a few seconds.

But there were just three of them, he needed more.

He waited until they pulled him up on his feet – two holding him, one keeping a gun at his head – then he disarmed the two of them with two quick moves, throwing their guns in the middle of building material.

“Fuck, Frank, come here!” the guy with the gun called. “You, stop, I’ll shoot!”

He froze, reading his eyes. He couldn’t risk catching a bullet now.

Two more of them emerged from around the corner.

“Hands on your head, and kneel!”

He did what he was told, gritting his teeth as they searched him, not gently at all. When they jerked him back on his feet he barely suppressed a hiss of pain.

“Keep your hands up, and move!” They pushed him in front of them and made him walk. When he turned his head to see if they all followed, he got one hit on the right side, sending him staggering forward, without any acting on his part. _No more experiments_. Keeping his arms this high was bad enough, everything around him started to move in slow waves as dizziness struck.

They took fifteen steps, going around the main building to Knudsen – fifteen seconds that his right arm couldn’t endure. He couldn’t keep it up even a second longer, the pain was unbearable – he stumbled, using that to lower his hands, taking two more hits that knocked him down on his knees again – but it was much better. He stayed there and let them drag him into the clearing. They threw him before Sophie and Nate.

He curled up on the ground, sparing just one glance to the five mobsters that now stayed near the stairs.

“Next time,” he breathed, “just ask him nicely to call his men himself, will ya?”

Nate’s smirk was clear in his earbud.

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***

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“Okay, we’ll end this charade now,” Florence heard Knudsen saying with previously unheard steel in his voice, while he watched Eliot being thrown in front of the others. She felt that steel in her bones – cold, stiff, unable to move. Her mind reeled inside her skull, bouncing around. _No matter what happens, don’t panic._ Eliot’s words were the thing she chose to cling to, and she repeated them over and over again. _What you see isn’t always what’s really happening_.

“You’re not any concerned citizen, I know who you are and why you're here. I wouldn’t be surprised if you brought her here, too – you did it before,” Knudsen continued. “This has nothing to do with the mine, so stop that shit.”

“And what is this _this_ , if I may ask?” A new voice, from out of nowhere, echoed in Florence’s ear, and she twitched, frantically searching the feed to find the source.

Patrick Bonnano stepped out from behind one truck and she gasped; in her panic she had completely forgot about him.

All Knudsen’s men pointed their guns at the new threat. “Detective Captain Patrick Bonnano,” he said pleasantly. All the guns disappeared.

Knudsen’s smile reappeared. “Right on time, Detective – we caught suspicious trespassers in the act – will you come closer and deal with them?”

She almost screamed – if Bonnano came closer, he would be as dead as the rest of them – Knudsen now had nothing to lose. He _had_ to kill them all. If there was any, tiny chance that Nate could talk their way out of it, now it was lost, and Bonnano was a nail in their coffin. She forgot how to breathe.

“Sure, _we_ will,” Bonnano stepped closer.

So did his men.

Seven heavy armored SWAT uniforms emerged from behind him.

Knudsen licked his lips. “This is… great,” he said carefully. “I’m glad you’re here. But, if I may ask, what are you doing here and why? I do hope you have some kind of a warrant or something, because if you don’t, you’re not allowed…”

“Oh, we don’t need it,” Bonnano’s smile remained pleasant. He didn’t move. “We were called to investigate a possible bomb threat in front of your main gate, among those tents outside the perimeter.”

“The key word is outside,” Knudsen said.

“And we were just finishing that and preparing to go home,” Bonnano went on, “when, imagine our surprise, a stolen vehicle drove right in front of our noses.” He motioned with his head to the two Corvettes parked close. “Our channels had been buzzing for some time about a Corvette being stolen, we just couldn’t miss that – you have to agree, only someone very, very stupid would steal that flashy car. We don’t need a warrant when in pursuit of suspects, and when a crime is being committed at the time being. You know that, right?”

“I’m glad I can help you with that,” Knudsen widened his smile, nodding to Nate and Sophie. “I’m sure our surveillance camera caught them entering through the main gate, and getting out of the vehicle.”

“Which one?” Bonnano’s voice had gotten softer and slower after every sentence, and Florence narrowed her eyes. She quickly searched Nate’s and Sophie’s faces – silent and calm. Eliot was, and she had no idea when or how, now only three feet away from both of them, on Sophie’s side.

“The left one is mine.” Knudsen looked again, and frowned. “No, wait, they are the same… I’m not sure.”

“Is it possible that both are stolen?”

“No way,” Knudsen hissed and reached in his pocket, taking out his car keys. “I’ll show you, all my papers are in the car, you can’t-”

“Do you mind?” Bonnano now stepped closer. Knudsen’s men all radiated gentle smiles and flower power energy, held in place by invisible eyes behind dark SWAT visors. “The bomb threat, remember? I don’t want to let a civilian near any suspicious vehicles.”

Knudsen handed him the keys with a quick smile. “Right, yes, you’re right…be my guest. But no one could put a bomb in my car – I got here only one hour ago, I have the only keys, no one was near it, I can guarantee it.”

Parker giggled.

“Good to know that.” Bonnano went to the car.

Florence noticed he went directly to Knudsen’s car – she turned her head to look at Parker while Bonnano carefully circled around the car, watching it.

Damn.

She quickly looked at Nate and Sophie again; Eliot wasn’t curled up anymore, he simply sat on the ground, watching the scene with the same interest as Sophie and Nate did. Randy-Brandy was standing behind them, frowning.

Bonnano let out a lazy whistle. “And what do we have here?” he said. She couldn’t see anything, he was blocking her view of the open car door. He waved one of his men to come closer.

Knudsen, alarmed, followed. “What?” He gasped, his mask of calmness destroyed in the moment the man pulled out a box with Chinese letters on it. Florence recognized it at the same time he did. “That’s not – wait, what – I have no idea how that appeared in my – are you sure that’s my car? Try the other one, this is not mine, that’s impossible-”

Bonnano waved his car keys in front of his face. “To quote your own words, ‘I got here only one hour ago, I have the only keys, no one was near it, I can guarantee it.’ I’m sure your surveillance feed will confirm that – or you want to say that someone tampered with your car _and_ your feed?

Now Hardison chuckled from somewhere.

Bonnano glanced in the box his man opened, with disgust on his face. Florence twitched – she was sure Nate chose the box with the head to make a better impression.

Bonnano turned a stunned Knudsen in one swift move and slammed him into the car. “Robert Knudsen, you’re under arrest-”

“Wait!”

Bonnano stopped and turned around.

Brandy-Randy-Candy moved one step toward the middle, facing them both. “Before you take him, Detective… I have some more charges to add. This man and all of his men, were attempting to commit the murders of four people. Only your arrival stopped them from killing us all.”

Knudsen spat in the sand; his handsome face was distorted into the mask of a cornered animal. “Nonsense! Detective, don’t listen to some stupid activist, these people see conspiracies behind everything. Pollution, bullshit – they were harassing me, trespassing, I’m sure they planted this box just like that bomb, they are dangerous. Government, FBI,CIA, decent businessmen – they are all enemies to them – I’m a fucking victim here!!!”

The woman blinked, surprised. “Oh, and I am the fucking government, young man. You tried to kill a high-ranking government official,” she said calmly. She turned to Bonnano again. “I’m Commissioner R.J. Kimmell, chief executive of the Massachusetts Department of Natural Resources.”  She motioned to the Nate and Sophie. “The FBI directed me to these fine people, the Concerned Lincoln Citizens, they were of great help after we got the air pollution monitor results. This man had rigged one monitor to cover up the massive ecocide. So you can add eco-terrorism to his charges.”

“What the hell…” Knudsen swallowed. Florence almost felt sorry for him.

Nate cleared his throat. “Hardison,” he whispered.

A distant squeak was heard in the silence after Knudsen spluttered his words – a squeak that grew in strength, becoming more and more clear, until both Florence and all the men in the mine could recognize the sound of heavy hydraulics lifting something up.

The slaughterhouse groaned and trembled, but nothing collapsed.

Commissioner Kimmell turned to Knudsen. “What do you have in there?!” she hissed. “You don’t have any facilities reported in your papers for that ruin! That’s against… Detective...”

“Yes, Madam,” Bonnano grinned and waved to the two of his men. “Go in there and check. I want a thorough report of every level – find the hydraulics and whatever was moved.”

Knudsen swayed and simply sat in the sand, watching the men that went directly to five containers full of machine guns. Than he started to laugh.

His men were frozen, they let the SWAT team gather them in one pitiful group. Only one man was enough to take them all away, they obeyed without a word. Their guns were gathered on the veranda.

“My team will take over now, Madam.” Bonnano offered his hand to Kimmell. “I’d like to take you away from here now, if you don’t mind – we have to talk about those results.”

“What about them?” Kimmell glanced to the rest of the team standing there innocently.

“Ah, they are free to return to their tents without a fuss – we know where to find them for their statements.”

With that, Bonnano just took her away.

Nate shrugged.

“This is strange,” he said quietly, still standing there. “All this Knudsen mess and planning, and I still didn’t have a chance to speak even one word to the man.”

Florence moaned and thumped her forehead onto the table.

Parker patted her on her back. “You’ll get used to it,” she said.

Her mind was blank.

Then she pushed herself from the table, sat in Eliot’s corner behind the driver’s seat, and pulled her jacket over her head.

She needed a drink.

Or two.

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***

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Eliot was seriously considering asking Bonnano to arrest him with the mobsters and take him away – he dreaded the return to the van through the forest. Yet, he was lucky this time – Sophie did all the nagging. She cursed every rotten leaf, every branch and puddle – walking through that shit was two times slower than it was by night. Only a little strange – she had on the same shoes she did before, not high heels. Nate, clearly still upset because he didn’t get a chance to properly gloat over Knudsen, made a mistake and grumbled about her nagging, and that was it – the two of them were stopping every fifty steps to continue a quiet argument, and in the end he had to wait for them to catch up, not the other way around.

Not that it helped him to recover – but at least he didn’t swim through the mud every time he had to stop and hold onto the trees, waiting for dizziness to stop.

Whatever they argued about, it was miraculously solved when they finally reached the van, and he was grateful for that. He needed silence, not constant sound of angry voices while they drove.

Hardison and Parker were waiting for them, leaning on his Challenger. Hardison was still working on his tablet.

Eliot wasn’t sure what to do when he found his place occupied. He nudged Florence with his foot, and waited until she emerged from under the jacket.

“Move,” he whispered. He wasn’t able to stand – or sit in a normal seat – and he needed his fucking corner to sit in, close his eyes, and be left alone until they got home.

“Is she sulking?” Nate asked behind him, peering at her.

“I’m not,” she hissed. But she moved away so he could sit finally. Jesus, that was a relief… he tried to arrange his arms and legs in some unsuspicious sitting position, but it was a futile attempt. He gave up on crossing his arms, or putting them on his knees, all of that demanded too much energy and it was too painful. He ended up with his right hand casually resting on his stomach.

“I’m recovering,” she continued. “Do we have anything to drink in the van?”

“Nope.” Nate slammed the door, and Sophie started the engine. “Parker and Hardison will follow us in the Challenger,” Nate said to him. “Do you want your laptop in here?”

No voting; he could only think about how to keep his hands as immobile as possible. But saying that to Nate would be very stupid, revealing of how bad off he was. “Sure, I can vote while we’re driving,” he said with effort.

A sigh through the earbud. The side door opened again and Parker threw his laptop at him.

He watched it flying – it was only a few feet from the side door to him – but Nate and Florence moved at the same time, both of them catching it halfway to him. He calculated the trajectory perfectly – it would hit him directly across the right clavicle – and he was almost positive that he would, in case they hadn't moved, have enough time to stop it.

Just great.

Florence put the damn thing on the floor in front of him.

He stared at it.

Than he raised his eyes to Nate who was still standing there, not moving.

“Nate, what happened with those monitors?” Florence quickly jumped in. One day he should tell her that there wasn’t any way to divert Nate’s attention from something. But he appreciated the attempt. “Eliot told me that Parker and Hardison didn’t touch the one they claimed was rigged. What did Kimmell find?”

“No, that one was clean. Hardison and I injected the other two with a huge amount of silica particles. Kimmell had only one conclusion to make: Knudsen cleaned one monitor, but the other two he didn’t have time to touch showed her _the real_ amount of pollution in one week. The dose was close to lethal.”

“Oh. When did you do it?”

“While Sophie was with the balloon people in front of C4, and the three of you were diving under the sniper. I have to say, of all of us, Hardison was in the greatest danger – he almost broke his le-”

She snorted in disdain. “Right. Flashbacks,” she said. They both looked at her with the same question.

She waved some papers she pulled out from under the jacket. “I put everything that happened into scene form, to analyze it. I despise flashbacks in the climax of the episode – it’s a way to tell your audience that you were too lazy to tie up all the ends in an appropriate manner. The episode has to have all the important facts and hints in the body of it, not added later. But this time, with several lines of action, I think I would have to use it. What you just said, about you and Hardison doing that with the monitors – if it wasn’t shown or mentioned in the episode, it would have to now be put in as a flashback, to explain to people what happened.” She stared at the papers for a few seconds. Then she smiled at Nate. “But you have a good feeling for dramatics, with lining up that hit after hit, ending with the hydraulics. Have you ever considered working in the screenwriting business?”

Nate blinked. Eliot grinned at him. “Nate, dramatic? You wouldn’t say.”

Nate waved that off. “Aren’t flashbacks insulting to your audience?” he said. “You said you wanted smart people to watch your show – just stop explaining things to the stupid ones, and see how fast only smart ones remain.”

“You have a very idealistic view of the percentage of smart viewers, Nate Ford,” she said. “I will never use really insulting flashbacks… For example, when Kimmell revealed herself, some shows would show the brief scene of the guard mentioning her to Hardison and Parker – _that’_ s insulting even to morons – but maybe–”

Eliot cleared his throat. “Can we go home, finally, and continue this later?” he said ruefully.

Florence put her papers back in her pocket. “Yes, you’re right – I was babbling again,” she said with one long, just slightly shaky sigh. “Apparently, I babble when I’m relieved, too, not only when I’m scared. Or happy. Or nervous.” She thought about it for a second, with a thoughtful stare into nothing, then jumped on her feet.

She hugged Nate and planted kiss on his cheek. “Thank you,” she simply said.

Even if Nate thought about backing away, he didn’t have time for that, Eliot noticed with a grin. He remained stupefied for three more seconds, staring at Florence who returned to her spot on the floor.

“You’re welcome,” he managed to say just then. The utter confusion on his face made Eliot's day much more than getting rid of Knudsen did. Even Sophie was laughing inside, he saw that in her eyes when she turned in the driver’s seat to look at them.

“Lucille isn’t a good place for a post-action briefing.” Sophie said. “Shall we go?”

“No, she isn’t,” Nate said, strangely hesitating. “In a minute, Sophie.” Instead of going to sit beside Sophie, he stayed with them, leaning on the door with one shoulder. He watched them – him – without a word. Even Florence felt something new in the air; Eliot saw her smile quickly fading as the silence went on.

“Actually,” Nate paused, bit his lip, and thought. “We’re not going home,” he said finally, still watching him.

This was getting better and better. He smiled sweetly. “And where are we going?”

“We have no time to waste now – Friday is passing faster than I thought. We have the Season Six part of the job to take care before we run out of afternoon.”

Yep, they did. He suppressed a sigh. He was the one who wanted Nate to keep up his speed, he reminded himself, and the healing and recovery would wait until the PVA. He said goodbye to resting and painkillers, and smiled again.

“Anything particular?”

“Oh, nothing drastic.” Nate tapped Sophie on her shoulder, and Lucille moved. “We're going to kill Parker.”

And all of the sudden, he had their full attention.

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*


	48. Chapter 48

 

Chapter 48

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***

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Eliot wasn’t surprised in the least when they found out that Nate and Sophie bought _a few_ more things besides fancy clothes for the PVA ceremony.

They did, however, drive by McRory’s. Hardison and Parker left his Challenger there; Nate said they would all go together in Lucille.

He kept his eyes closed while Sophie drove, and nobody bothered him. Florence was sitting by his side, but she was occupied with her papers, writing something at frenetic speed. She didn’t ask him why he wasn’t voting – he only used the laptop to search maps for a good spot to park Lucille when they arrived.

He knew that Hardison’s and Parker’s arrival would add to the noise – but when Hardison opened the side door it almost unleashed chaos. The hacker was holding a huge box in front of him, a box with Chinese letters on it.

Florence’s papers flew everywhere as she pushed herself back – for a moment he thought she would try to squeeze herself between his back and the wall. “Stop him!” she uttered. “No more boxes, please, I dreamed about body parts crawling around in the apartment – how could you give Bonnano _half_ of a man, and keep the other half?!”

Hardison’s grin widened. He opened the box and sniffed it – Florence hid her face into his sleeve with disgusted _eeuw_ – but Hardison reached into it and took out smaller packages.

“Lunch,” he said, his grin going evil. “Chinese takeout for six. And Parker’s bringing pizzas.”

Florence glanced at the hacker, cautiously, then quickly moved away from his arm, gathering up her papers. “That was _very_ funny,” she murmured. She moved one more foot away from him. “Sorry.” And the pink was back, twice today. She blushed incredibly adorable.

Eliot said nothing when the two of them engaged in a quick quarrel about recklessly scaring other people. That only reminded him how he had lost any ability to scare her. And he had no idea when, exactly, that happened. After all the scary shit he did to her, her first impulse was to hide behind him. He did a _great_ job of keeping her alert and cautious around him. Around them all.

He tried to tune them out, resting his head on the wall, closing his eyes again, but he felt a hand waving in front of his face. Parker put a pizza box in his lap, with a steely stare that dared him to say something, anything. Arguing with Parker was the last thing he was capable of now, so he just smiled, hoping she wouldn’t ask him about the energy bars. He threw away that unhealthy artificial shit a long time ago. Besides, she was right. He had to eat.

Hardison and Florence finished their arguing before he could pay attention to them, they were already on a completely different subject.

“And you can’t see it, but the insignia is only ironed on to the windbreakers, so they can be used as something else,” Hardison was explaining, arranging a FBI jacket on her shoulders.

“Exactly as we do when filming – clothes are recycled most of the time.”

“And now, look at this!” Hardison took off his suit jacket, turning it inside out, revealing the dark green inner color. In three seconds, he held in his hands the official uniform of Dvorak Security.

“What? When did you do that? Nate told you about the jackets just-”

“During the night,” the hacker threw one glare at him and Parker. “These ungrateful people think their clothes just appear by themselves, by some magic; nope, I _make_ them.”

Florence chuckled. “You aren’t trying to say you actually sewed this, last night?” She met his stare and widened her eyes. “You have sewing machine? Seriously?”

“I bet he can also crochet,” Eliot couldn’t resist adding.

“Yeah, mock the hard work.” Hardison didn’t take the bait, he grinned. “But next time, I’m making an office in my apartment, to save time and spare me traveling home. I’m the one who does all the invisible work, now it’s my turn to just take a few steps to the bed.”

“Be my guest.”

“What do you mean – the next time?”

“We never know when we will have to disappear. When our aliases are burned, when our places are compromised, when we stir up too much noise – we disperse and disappear, leaving no traces.”

“Oh. Do you think this job will compromise you?”

“If this cartel-gang-killers mess didn’t do it, a few mobsters won’t, for sure.” Hardison took Florence by her shoulders and turned her around. “Yo, Nate!” he called. “You said nothing about a jacket for Florence for tomorrow. Does she need one?”

“If you have one handy,” came the reply from the front seats.

“I can work on Parker’s old ones.” He thoughtfully looked her over from head to toe, and Eliot rolled his eyes. Geeky people shared many weird things, obviously – if he had measured her like that, he would get a slap. Even his innocent glances at her hair were something egregious. And when Hardison did this, it was _normal_.

“Now we shall see what Sophie brought in those bags,” Hardison finished his inspection with a satisfied nod, but he turned to him. “But before that,” he lowered his voice, suddenly sounding serious. The hacker came closer and put one hand on his shoulder. “I have to ask you something important.”

What the hell was that supposed to mean? He eyed the hacker with caution.

“Eliot,” Hardison’s eyes were serious. “How do you feel – emotionally?”

Fuck, he just _knew_ Hardison would remember that _. Don’tkillhim_.

He didn’t have to warn himself, actually, because this was an old feeling, familiar and safe – a mixed burst of rage and laughter – his usual reaction to Hardison’s attacks of this sort. And much to his surprise, he felt the laugh prevailing, boiling right beneath the surface.

And staying there. The knot in his throat stopped the laugh with a painful twitch and his breath stood caught. He _couldn’t_ laugh. He knew that before, but now, when he was so close, it was confirmed with painful clarity.

He froze his stare, bared his teeth into a smile. “Right now?” he breathed. “Very… upgraded.”

Hardison quickly jumped away; his danger sensors had improved with time, though he still had the reckless smile on his face, a smug, satisfied grin. Damn him; Eliot felt his own grimace moving towards a real smile, too.

He pretended he didn’t see Florence and Parker grinning.

 _Damn idiots_.

He decidedly closed his eyes again, and pushed himself into the very corner, in the deepest shadows. No matter how pushy Hardison was, he knew when to stop; he heard him going back to Florence, continuing about the jackets and _all the things I do for them and they take it for granted_.

He _was_ better. A few days ago, this would've thrown him into tachycardia. Today he almost laughed, and that surprised him the most… no, wait, he was wrong. He almost laughed this morning, too, when Florence trapped herself in the bed. Twice in just one day, that was a visible improvement. And unexpected.

He was pondering that when he felt Lucille stopping, and he stirred awake. It was too early.

When Nate had told them what he was going to do, and how he would kill Parker, he searched all the possible targets in Boston, and found a few small and safe ones, with good visibility and an even better place to stop and be near; and neither one was _this_ close to them.

The only one that came to his mind was… no, fuck, impossible.

He couldn’t see outside of the van from his position, but he didn’t need to. He saw Parker’s face, a mixture of excitement and delight in her stricken eyes, and he knew his worst thought had just been confirmed.

“This is so… beautiful,” Parker whispered.

Hardison’s face went three shades lighter.

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***

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Yep, damn right the Zakim Bunker Hill Bridge was beautiful, every Boston city tour repeated that – the bridge was freaking gorgeous with its two tall towers and elegant cables – but it was tall, and deadly, and definitely the worst choice of all the Boston bridges.

“You can’t be serious!” Hardison was walking after Nate over the green lawn of Paul Revere Park. They parked Lucille there, near the path that led along the docks. “It’s fucking _tall_!”

Eliot was pacing his own trail in the grass, in front of Lucille, just a little slower.

Parker went alone to prepare everything. The flippers and breathing apparatus were placed in a bright yellow bag – she simply put it on her back and slid into the dirty, murky water, disappearing from their sight in seconds. For the past ten minutes he had traced the blond ponytail while she swam – nobody noticed her. She kept herself in the shadow of the dock on their side, and he lost her when she reached the darker shade under the bridge.

“The Zakim Bridge is a symbol, and symbols stay in people’s minds,” Nate was patiently explaining to unnerved hacker, “and it has two outer lanes along with eight that go through the towers, four in each direction. Only the traffic on those two separated lanes will be stopped, and there will be enough room for a crowd, the Channel Six camera crew, and all the witnesses we need. Even better, it’s long enough that no one can see clearly what’s going on near the banks – and because of the eight moving lanes, no one will be able to go to the other side and check against the stream.”

“It’s fucking _tall_!” It seemed that Hardison’s usual eloquence was reduced to repeating that the bridge was – no kidding – tall; it was his only stunned reply to everything that Nate said. And it had went on and on for the last three minutes.

“I’m aware of that fact, yes.” Nate's voice was resigned – he quickened his steps. Hardison followed.

Eliot sighed and turned his back on them, resuming his own pacing. Ten more steps and he knew he would start staggering, so he forced himself to stop. He looked at Sophie who was sitting on the floor of Lucille. The side door was open, facing the ominous structure and dark waters beneath it. She was dressed in dark skirt and vest – her feet were swaying from the van, in strangely flat, brown shoes.

“You knew he was going to do this?” he asked her. Florence, silent and worried, was braiding the grifter’s hair in an old-fashioned style.

“I knew he was planning something like that the moment he asked Betsy if swimming would be good for the muscles in her leg, so I asked him directly shortly after that,” she said. “I thought you had already learned how to reverse his questions into the right meaning. He wasn’t making a suggestion – he was really asking if it would be safe.”

“Safe?! You called this- safe?” he choked on the word and resumed his pacing.

Sophie said nothing, just smiled. Of course it was safe for Parker – she would enjoy it immensely.  A twelve meter free fall, without ropes, with nothing, must’ve been the vision of heaven for her – but it wasn’t for _them_. This shit was one of the most dreaded situations in his line of work – he was unable to help. Hardison was in the same position – no hacking could grant her the right angle when she hit the water. No typing could help her to find the air cylinder in time.

Nate _could_ choose a smaller bridge.

He went to the two of them, cutting off Hardison’s attempts.

“We can still go to the Harvard bridge,” he said as calmly as he could, as a mere suggestion.

“It has clearance below four meters, Eliot. The Zakim Bridge has twelve – it’s optimal. Not too high for Parker, nor too low.”

“What if–” he stopped, not wanting to count everything that could go wrong, not in front of Hardison who was already frightened.

“She said that I had to trust her,” Nate said slowly, looking at both of them in turns. “She said that she could do it without a problem.” He now settled his eyes on him. “Why should I trust you, and not her? Why is your word, when you say you can do something, worthier than hers?”

“It’s not – it’s just – there’s so many unpredictable - It’s fucking _tall_!” he stopped his stammering, bit back a _fuck_ , and walked away.

He leaned on the Lucille with his back, one meter away from Sophie and Florence, crossed his arms and sulked in silence.

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***

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Parker returned on foot twenty minutes later. The rain started again in the meantime, so her wet hair wasn’t something that would draw the attention of rare passersby; her black clothes, soaking wet, weren’t suspicious either.

Eliot noticed a change in her gait. She wasn’t limping, but there was a millisecond delay before she stepped with her wounded leg, like she was adjusting the position to spare the muscles as much as she could.

“Planted the bag two meters below the surface, thirty meters behind the bridge, up against the current,” she reported before Sophie drew her into Lucille and slammed the door after her and Florence, leaving the men outside in the rain.

Hardison had a blanket over his head and shoulders, shielding his tablet from the rain, and they could only hear his low mumblings.

“We forgot the rain – you have to abort the mission,” the hacker finally said, emerging from the blanket with one eye. He squinted under Nate’s cold glaze. “No, seriously, abort it – constant rain for two weeks, Nate, the water level is much higher than usual. I just checked everything was said about it for Boston – another storm is expected tonight, with record amounts of rain, flood warnings are flashing all across town, all services are in a state of emergency for tomorrow, and this current is ten times stronger than the one you expected. She has to swim _against_ it!”

“That’s why Nate bought the flippers,” Parker’s voice from inside the Lucille answered before Nate could say anything. “I wouldn’t need them otherwise.”

“The flood water is muddy, murky and full of debris, visibility is none to non-existent,” Hardison continued. “You sure you’d be able to see fucking flippers and an air container?”

“A fluorescent yellow bag,” Parker chirped.

Hardison sighed.

Nate checked his watch. “Laura Flynn-Mullins and her crew are just a few minutes away, and ready. We should go, Parker. Ready?”

“Ready,” she said, coming out. A chestnut wig covered her wet hair, whips touching her shoulders; Sophie even put makeup that added color to her cheeks. Yet, no pink lipstick could cover her slightly bluish lips.

“What’s the temperature of that water, Hardison?” Eliot asked, not really wanting to hear the answer.

“Autumny, stormy, floody, too cold to even put your finger in it?”

“Right,” he muttered, sending one precisely measured mad glare at the thief who was adjusting her dark plaid skirt and black, girlish top.

“We can go,” she grinned at the morose faces around her.

The surface of the water, whipped with rain, looked like a leaden-gray thorny meadow. Impenetrable.

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***

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The silence in the van lasted the entire short drive up to the bridge. Nate stopped Lucille at the very beginning of the two separate traffic lanes, where the first cables came up from the surface and climbed up to the first tower. He put the flashers on; there wasn’t very much traffic and all the cars went into the other lane, without any danger of bumping into their tail.

“Your earbud will die when you hit the water, but take it anyway – we may need some stalling,” Nate said when Parker opened the door.

“And take the phone, just in case,” Sophie put the phone in the thief’s pocket. “In case we need a distress call.”

 _How much more distress did they need?_ Eliot thought, refusing to say anything except quietly grumbling under his breath. Hardison came out with Parker, and the hacker was already talking at a fast pace before he closed the door.

Eliot knew very well that his pose radiated irritation, though he was sitting on the floor; his arms were crossed not because he wanted to, but because he realized that untangling them would demand too much pain and effort. He pulled his left fingers through the jacket's button holes, and it served as an anchor, he simply rested his right hand on the other, weightless.

The hits he took hadn’t been serious or particularly nasty, they hadn’t roughed him up very badly, but the combination of pulling, hits, and being stretched out set a deep, deep throbbing in his chest, pulsing with the every heartbeat. Breathing was difficult.

He turned his wrist to look at his watch – afternoon was slowly but steadily crawling by. He was up, walking, fighting, walking again, and driving, for hours now. Very soon he wouldn’t be able to hide the tremble buried in his muscles, the chill that ran through him in waves. No heater in Lucille could help with that. Black dots were dancing in the corners of his vision, even now when he was sitting.

He was so fucking tired.

And if anything happened, he couldn’t do shit. Get up, stumble and fall. He overdid it hours ago.

He set his jaw in a permanent lock, to cover up clattering of his teeth, deepened the scowl on his face to discourage any attempt of communication, and waited.

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***

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It was a two hundred meter walk for Parker, to the middle of the bridge, but when she arrived, everything went pretty fast. Florence oscillated between sharing Hardison’s and Eliot’s visible discomfort, and Nate’s and Sophie’s silent trust. Androids were indestructible, right? Those two were just overprotective, both of them in their own unique way. And it was kinda cute, too, seeing them so upset. Why couldn’t men admit the simple fear, why did they have to mask it as worry, or logical security risks, or any other bullshit they used to make it look like they weren’t, simply, scared?

Several minutes passed before the first driver noticed the lonely girl in the middle of the bridge, standing on the outer side of the concrete fence, and stopped his car. Another followed twenty seconds later. Two minutes after that, after a lot of honking, turning around, and door- slamming, the traffic in both lanes was stopped, the traffic backing up.

One van that passed by them, Florence noticed, had a Channel Six logo. It stopped, but the crew poured out with cameras, going to the middle through the pissed off drivers who didn’t yet realize what was going on.

“Pay attention, people,” Hardison called to them all, setting up his monitors. Nate and Sophie came to see it, but Eliot stayed low in his corner.

Screens filled with the live report on Channel Six, with a familiar female voice. “This is Laura Flynn-Mullins, reporting from the Zakim Bridge. We still don’t know what’s causing this traffic jam – there’s the possibility of an accident, yet we don’t see or hear any sirens or ambulances. It seems we arrived first on the scene, and we shall now – oh, no, it’s not an accident.”  The camera that was shifting all around now focused on Parker, standing at the very edge of the fence.  Empty space surrounded her, nobody dared to come closer, though people were calling out her and trying to talk to her.

“Okay, Parker, you’re going live now,” Nate said.

Florence held her breath when Parker turned slightly; her balance was ruined for a second, and Florence had to remind herself that it was probably intentionally.  A horrified hiss went through people surrounding her, even the reporter gasped.

Parker raised her arms. “I have nothing left to live for.” Her clear voice cut through the sudden silence.

“We have a suicide attempt!!” Laura said quickly, moving closer. “An unknown girl is attempting suicide from the Zakim Bridge, people are trying to talk her down. We still don’t see any police nearby, and we don’t know why-”

“They killed The Magnificent Seven – my only reason for living,” Parker continued, louder. “They canceled it – because of the money!!!”

“Oh my god, this isn’t happening.” The reporter, no matter how prepared she was, managed to send a note consternation through her trembling voice.

Parker’s voice grew stronger. “They were my family!! Chris, Vin, Buck…” she lowered her head and muttered barely audible, “Florence…”

“Oh,” Florence quickly said. “Ezra, Josiah…”

“… Ezra, Josiah… every week I lived for an hour with them! They filled my days with hope, with the promise of justice and good things happening to people! Why did C4 kill _that_?!”

“That’s our cue,” said Sophie. Florence noticed her and Nate leaving, but she was glued to the screens, breathless.

“I just remembered,” Hardison said quickly, “if we had waited until dark, she could have the rope, and she wouldn’t need to actually…”

Parker spread her arms, looked at the sky, and jumped.

“…jump,” Hardison finished quietly. He muted the collective scream, and they all heard a heavy splash when the thief hit the water. Her line on the comm feed went red, the earbud died.

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***

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“What now?” Florence whispered.

Hardison rubbed his face, looking tired. “She has enough air for one hour, if necessary.” She noticed he didn’t mention _if_ she found the yellow bag in the water. “They will all look, and search, down river, not up. She will wait ten minutes in the shadow of the docks, to avoid someone seeing her from above – she would have to dive very deep to be completely invisible and that’s not worth the risk. She promised she would pause every fifty meters, and rest. We'll pick her up at the end of Nashua Street Park, around four hundred meters away from here. In about… twenty minutes.”

Florence just nodded, suppressing a sigh. The silence from the corner behind driver’s seat was echoing. She concentrated again on the reporter who had started to speak more calmly, after the initial freak out. “Our second crew is at the C4 building, they were waiting to take a statement from the executives. Our audience wanted to know what they have to say about the amazing YouTube video viewership, especially the one from Las Vegas, which received more than three million hits in just one night – now, unfortunately, because of this tragic turn, their questions will be different.”

A quick cut showed another scene, and a young black reporter standing in front of the C4 building's stairs. “And right on time, Laura,” she said, pointing her microphone to two men in dark suits, caught leaving, and obviously very determined to not give any statement. Brewer was nowhere in sight. “Gentlemen, can you tell me, as members of the Board of Directors, are you aware that your decision resulted in the loss of a life? A young girl just committed suicide because of The Magnificent Seven's cancellation.  Any comment?”

Even before one of them, angry, tried to push away the microphone, Florence knew what fatal mistake they would make with this. If this reporter had even a tenth of Laura’s skill, they were doomed.

“No comment,” the man barked at the camera.

“How do you feel, knowing you pushed a person to her death?”

“I said, no comment. We have nothing to do with anybody’s death, our company isn’t responsible for the actions of individuals. You can’t imply any connection to C4.”

“So, that’s the only important thing here? Your company? Are you afraid that the public opinion will turn against you, even more than it’s already turned? Is it all about money? Or are you afraid that family will sue you?”

“Sue us?!” he choked, perplexed. “What are you talking about? How can C4 be connected with some deranged person killing herself? Do you know how many mental cases watch our shows? If we ever-”

The other man saw this was heading toward a disaster, and quickly jumped in front of the camera. “Our sincere condolences to the family,” he cut off the other man’s words. “We don’t have an official statement yet, but you will be the first to know. That was a tragic, tragic death, and we are deeply sorry.”

“Thank you.” The reporter let them go and waited a few seconds, then turned to the camera again. “The media storm is whipping C4 really hard. Their shows are losing viewers, the boycott is at full strength, and the entire country is together in this – we want The Magnificent Seven back on our screens. Our sources have confirmed that all DVD sets and books are sold out, millions and millions of new people want to know why this series has raised so much noise – and if C4 doesn’t change its mind, it will become the worst business decision of all time. Unfortunately, it will be too late for one girl.”

“Thank you, Karen,” Laura took over again. “While we wait for any information about the identity of the victim, we shall speak to witnesses and take their statements. Stay tuned.”

Commercials spread over the screens, and Florence exhaled one long breath. She glanced at Hardison, at the tension radiating from his stiff posture, his eyes glued on the screens. Then she looked at Eliot, barely visible in the dark pit under the light from the monitors, and his strange silence that spoke volumes.

The things were going well, for now, she reminded herself, as her unease grew. Step after step, slowly but as expected.

She hugged herself and tried to calm her worries down.  With almost no success. Nate’s plan had a few more steps. It wasn’t finished yet, everything still could go south. And Parker was still in icy cold water.

 She kept silent, and counted the minutes.

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*

 


	49. Chapter 49

Chapter 49

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***

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Parker had been in the water for seven minutes.

One lane on the Zakim Bridge was now open for traffic, so Hardison brought Lucille closer to the middle of the bridge. Eliot listened to Laura making her way through the shaken people – many of them stayed to wait for police. He tried not to look at his watch every fifteen seconds, but he didn’t have to; he knew exactly how many minutes had passed since the thief hit the surface and disappeared.

Hardison went back to the table. The hacker was busy sending info to Laura. Or, better to say, busy with keeping himself busy.

“I prepared a few possible identities for Parker to choose from, when we see what C4’s reaction will be,” the hacker said when he hit the send key. “After their blunt statement about a mental case and deranged person, I chose a young scientist. Lovable, with a bright future, highly intelligent, MENSA member, active in charities – that sounds better than a ballet dancer, don’tcha think?”

Eliot just nodded when Hardison glanced at him.

Channel Six showed a short summary of the #SeaOfCrimson activities during the previous day, while Laura was preparing the rest of the report. Florence got up and went to the front seats. He barely had enough time to stretch out his leg and stop her last step. Moving, surprisingly, seemed easier than talking right now.

“No, stay in the back,” he said when she looked at him, surprised. “We can’t risk someone seeing Florence McCoy in a van twenty meters from the place where one of her fans just died.”

“I’m in disguise.” She pointed at the beanie covering her hair. Did she really think that that would hide her?

“No, he’s right,” Hardison said. “People are constantly taking pictures, you may end up on someone’s profile. Stay low.”

She sighed and sat back.

This reminded him of all the problems they would encounter tomorrow at the PVA. “Sophie, can you talk?” he asked.

One exasperated sigh in his earbud gave him an answer immediately. “Is it important? I’m preparing for-”

“Tomorrow bring all the wigs you have – Florence might need them at the PVA.”

“Okay.”

“And why,” Florence said softly, “would I need wigs for the PVA?”

“To completely cover your hair, why else?” he heard himself saying, in one long, long moment clearly aware that the softness of her voice should’ve warned him. But he was too tired and too worried to think clearly. _A hair issue_. Fuck, he stepped right into that. He quickly turned to the hacker. “Hardison, maybe people are recording this, not just taking pictures. Did you-?”

“Took down two videos already,” the hacker said. “Checking it constantly, just in cas-”

“And why should I cover my hair at the PVA? Or at all?”

“No reason. Except, maybe, disguise.” He endured her long, pretty cold stare. “There’s nothing wrong with your hair,” he added, he couldn’t stop himself, and then cursed inwardly. That sentence was just glaringly pointed out that he meant there _was_ something wrong. No matter that he had no idea _what_ – it sounded idiotic. Her face was devoid of expression as she studied him.

Nate’s voice trailed in, saving him from her questioning him further. Most of all, saving him from his idiotic answers, he corrected himself. “You two, get out of the van, go into the crowd. Florence, stay inside, hidden.”

“What’s going on?” he quickly asked.

“Laura’s crew is taking statements from the people – none of them have ever heard about M7 until yesterday, and that will sound bad. Go out there and talk.”

“In front of cameras? Dude, I can’t guarantee I will find all the videos and take them down, not to mention pics.”

“Think of something, Hardison. And hurry. We can’t do it, Sophie must not be seen at this point.”

Just great. Eliot slowly straightened himself up, relaxing his arms. Going out on the verge of passing out, in pain, or staying here with a pissed off woman whose hair he had just insulted… well, there was only one correct answer to that dilemma. In fact, while they were deep in that damn hair issue, he could do something that he wouldn’t dare to do otherwise.

He stood up, pretty satisfied he didn’t sway.

“I will need that beanie,” he said firmly. “And Nate’s stupid glasses.”

Hardison was already rummaging through the bags, trying to find something for himself.

Florence took off the beanie and gave it to him. He tried to keep his eyes strictly on her face, and not glance at her hair, but it was impossible. He couldn’t help it, not after this conversation. Messy, tangled, flattened, half wet and all together awful. She had no makeup on, she was wearing his jacket and broad, shapeless clothes underneath, and no normal person would look twice at her. And why the hell did he want to kiss her _now_? This second? _All fucking seconds_? How she had managed to be beautiful to him even now? There was some scary shit at work here, and he had no idea what to do with it.

Of course she noticed him looking at her hair; her eyes darkened alarmingly. “Betsy recognized Hardison last time from blurry street camera footage,” she said sweetly. “You think this disguise will help you? Or him? By the way, if she’s working… you’re aware that Mass Gen is just a few minutes’ walk from here?”

Until now, Betsy wasn’t on his mind as a potential problem, other people were… but now he just rubbed his forehead wearily – one more problem to think about, dammit. He put the beanie on, deciding not to answer.

Hardison was ready when he was, he wrapped Sophie’s scarf in some sort of turban – one end covered the lower half of his face.

“Ready?” the hacker asked, opening the door.

No, he wasn’t fucking ready, his legs were rubbery and the black dots in the corners of his eyes were dancing faster and faster – but the thing that stopped him wasn’t dizziness. It was the cloud of that damn avocado oil and shea butter hair conditioner surrounding his face. He put _that_ on his hair with the beanie, there was no escape, he inhaled it with every breath-

“What’s up?” Hardison narrowed his eyes, waiting for him, and he stopped an involuntary wave of his hand in front of his face – no waving could get rid of that scent. It went directly into the very dangerous parts of his brain – that pitiful, messed up piece of shit that thought about impossible nonsense- “You okay?”

He growled instead of answering, feeling his annoyance level rising faster than his thoughts could follow, and passed by him, stepping onto the bridge. What the hell were they supposed to do? He tried to concentrate on Nate’s words, and not on that sweetness that engulfed him – talk to people, yes, that was it. About M7.

A cold wind went through his soaked clothes and he swayed, but stayed on his feet.

This was nothing. The water under the bridge was icy cold, not this wind.

Parker had been in that water for ten minutes.

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***

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Finally alone. Florence quickly ran her hands through the sticky mess on her head and shook out all the locks, not sure if she was more pissed off because of that unexplainable hatred towards her hair, or the actual awful state of it. Either way, she had to bite her tongue to stop silent curses. She was getting better at this shit – always aware that the earbud connected her to them.

Earlier in the day she had searched Lucille for weapons – and she was aware that had become her first response to any stress or danger, thanks to their reckless, stupid, immature, illogical and utterly idiotic decision to have none. _Seriously, two fucking knives? From time to time_? She searched the van for the second time in one day, this time looking for a mirror.  And she felt growing rage, which wasn’t so clever. Not at him – at her own stupid reaction. She shouldn’t have been so unnerved because some idiot didn’t like her hair. _Hated her hair_.

 _Okay, stop_. She quickly returned to the screens.

They were in the middle of a dangerous action. Still no sign from Parker. Neither the time, nor the place to think about her looks.

She returned right on time, because the reporter in the Channel Six studio announced the rest of Laura’s live report, and the first statement from the witnesses started. And Nate was right. The first three heard about the canceled show only yesterday.

Hardison was next.

“This is just the beginning, people, mark my words!” His voice was trembling, but he made it clear it was because of the chilly wind – he shivered visibly and it gave him an excuse to pull up his collar and scarf tucked around his head and mouth. “It was just a matter of time before desperate people start killing themselves. There will be more. I am devastated too – but I still have hope. There is still a chance that C4 will change their decision and stop all this. They said they will make it official at the PVA Ceremony – it's the best time to say they won’t cancel it, right? Tell me I’m right! Tell me!”

“Thank you, thank you, I’m sure C4 will reconsider the cancellation. Thank you again,” Laura pulled her microphone from his grabby hands, and turned to a woman who was nodding while he spoke. That one loved M7, and Florence felt relief; she was having trouble distinguishing the real number of her fans from this false image they had created. She almost believed this was all real, that the entire country really wanted her show… and that thought brought a smile to her face again. If _she_ was almost deceived, the common folks had no chance.

The distant wailing of sirens announced police coming, and she twitched. _And when exactly did that sound became something that made a respectable author think only of clearing out, as soon as possible_?  She sighed in unease when she realized that sentence ‘And when exactly, insert a random fact here’ had became her usual thought during these past few days. She was changing, very fast, and she couldn’t tell if it was for good or for bad.

A clang on the door announced Hardison’s return. She knew he hurried back to monitor the police and time they had. They had at least a few more minutes before the police arrived.

Trying to guess anything from his face was futile, she couldn’t decipher if he was frowning because he was scared for Parker, or because time running out.

“Is there anything I can do?” she asked.

His fingers were busy on keyboard, he didn’t turn to her. “No,” he said shortly. “Stay low.”

So she sighed and did as she was told.

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***

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“But why would anyone kill herself because of some stupid show?”

Eliot heard that question from the crowd; the woman that said that was second in the line for Laura’s questions. He had to remove her from there, but his mind was blank, he had no idea how to do it, except to throw her from the bridge. He tried to calm his annoyance down, without success.

“Hi there,” he said pleasantly, noticing his voice was a little shaky. He cleared his throat and continued stronger. “Did you know that a smile and a positive attitude in front of cameras takes off ten pounds?” he said, moving close to her, glancing down at his chest with concern. “Do you think it works on men, too? I already feel fat.”

A woman eyed him with a grimace. “What the hell are you talking about?” Her tone was cold.

“That,” he pointed at her. “You’re frowning – so you look fatter. Try to smile.”

She moved her mouth into something indescribable. “Perfect, it works,” he smiled back, aware he wasn’t convincing at all – his reserves of charm were completely depleted.

“And why should I smile and look positive when asked about a dead girl? Are you nuts?”

“They will ask about the show, not the girl – and I’m sure you don’t want to look fat in front of judgmental people.  A positive attitude is easy. Just smile and tell them you watched it, you liked it, and you’re sad it’s gone. In only one sentence you will show them you’re a caring person, and you’ll shine on the screen.”

She rolled her eyes and he took two steps back, disappearing among the other people, letting her off the hook. Any further pressure would do no good. And throwing her off the bridge would divert the attention from M7.

Minutes were passing, slowly, adding to his unease. They were too close to the incoming police, too exposed with phones and cameras recording everything, and the alarms in his head were ringing without a pause. The cacophony of voices all talking at the same time, mixed with the constant clicking of phones, and flashes, melted into one roaring sound that covered everything else, not helping his dizziness at all. He had to lean on the Channel Six van to get himself together, to blink away the fog around him. The damn fog was still full of that distracting scent, yet he couldn’t risk taking the beanie off. The sunglasses – very cool looking in the soft rain – weren’t enough to hide him.

He decided to wait until Laura finished with two more people, to put enough time between Hardison’s and his statements, and every second that passed added to his confusion. It wasn’t just his damn body that was betraying him, his mind was also refusing to cooperate.

He rubbed the back of his wrist against his forehead, feeling rain and sweat mixed together, closing his eyes for a moment. That should’ve slowed down the spinning around him, but it didn’t. It was that damn fever - it messed up his coordination, and it was blurring his thoughts. Added to his already shitty state, no wonder he was at the end of his strength.

He needed to lie down, to go to the apartment as in _now_.

The police sirens were closer.

He opened his eyes directly into Nate’s gaze. Nate was standing behind the crowd, barely visible, leaning on a car and casually taking pictures with his phone, and he just slightly nodded when their eyes met.

“Nine minutes before Sophie,” Nate said through the earbud.

He nodded back.

He could do _nine minutes_. Yet, he couldn’t risk collapsing in the middle of the crowd, and every second of waiting was pushing him towards it. He took a few deeper breaths to clear his head, gritted his teeth and forced his legs to move.

He was standing in front of Laura and her microphone before he realized that buzzing he heard was inside his head, and not an incoming helicopter.

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***

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Florence almost chuckled when she saw Eliot on the screen; the beanie covered his hair completely, no one could guess its color, and dark sunglasses hid everything from his nose up to beanie. She wouldn’t recognize him if she saw him on the street, unless he smiled. He wasn’t smiling now.

“Are you familiar with The Magnificent Seven and whole situation with C4?” Laura asked her usual witness questions.

“Damn shame it’s canceled,” Eliot said in an even voice. “I expected at least four more seasons. The show was doing great.”

Hardison was checking the other screen, working something with YouTube, but Florence noticed he flinched when he heard Eliot’s voice, turning quickly to her screen. She glanced at him, at his suddenly narrowed eyes, alert and awake. Eliot’s voice did have an absent, empty intonation – but she thought it was intentional.

“C4 claims that the numbers weren’t so good, and that was the reason for cancellation,” Laura continued. “The Nielsen ratings system confirms it, though we believe that those numbers aren’t always accurate. What do you think about-”

Hardison was on his feet in a second. “Oh, hell no,” he muttered and flew out of Lucille before Florence could open her mouth, much less ask what was happening.

“What do I think about _Nielsen_?” Eliot’s voice lost its levelness, it became stronger, disturbingly close to a snarl. Laura took a step back. “That overrated, archaic, unreliable peace of… let me tell you _exactly_ what Nielsen does, and exactly how-”

“I see her!! I see her!!” A terrified howl interrupted his words; Florence recognized Hardison’s voice.  The crowd ran to the edge of the fence, and Laura’s attention followed them.

“Thank you, that was interesting.” She pointed to the edge and camera rolled on that side – Florence couldn’t see Eliot anymore, just the backs of the people staring at the water.

She quickly opened the side door and peered out through the one inch crack – Hardison was by Eliot’s side, walking with him in the opposite direction of the crowd, heading to Lucille in a semi-circle. She shut the door and returned to the monitors. Three police officers were now with the crowd, trying to see the body in the water.

“Okay, Nate, you’re on your own, we’re clearing out,” she heard Hardison say. “We have seven minutes to pick up Parker. Do you want us to wait for-”

“No, we’ll catch a taxi, it’s better to avoid someone seeing us with Lucille. Meet you at the apartment. Record all the important reports, I want to see everything.”

“Already on it.”

When the door opened, the first thing she noticed was Hardison’s lips in a thin line. Just after that she realized that he practically dragged Eliot inside. He left him standing and went directly to the driver’s seat. Two seconds later, without warning, Lucille started.

She saw Eliot’s knees buckling, but he grabbed the table before collapsing, and lowered himself onto the floor, making it look like he planned to do that, and not like the movement almost brought him down.

She was still sitting in Hardison’s chair, but she leaned toward him, to see him better. “Are you okay?” The back of the van was dark, but enough light came from the front side. She could see how ragged his movement was, how careful and slow, when he took off his sunglasses.

“Absolutely fine,” came the slightly slurred answer. Hardison said nothing to that, but Lucille darted into full speed.

Florence expected his eyes to be blurry after she heard his voice, but they were bright. Too bright; the fever was clearly raging inside. No wonder. Honestly, she had no idea how he still functioned at all, after all those hours.

He fumbled with the beanie for a second, taking it off. “Take it,” he said, shaking his head, brushing his hair off his face in a half angry move. Unfocused and pissed off – that would be a terrible combination in any other man, but he managed to look adorable even now.

She took the beanie and leaned back in the seat, and for some time the only sound was the unusually angry roar of Lucille’s engine. She felt it every time Hardison shifted gears.

They arrived before she came up with something to say or do; the Nashua Street Park was only a few minutes’ drive. Parker was supposed to come out of the water at the very end of it, under the Craigie Drawbridge, which would hide her. Hardison parked as near as he could. The park was just a narrow strip of green between the avenue and the river, and thanks to lousy weather and the rain, there were no people under the scarce trees.

She checked her watch. Twenty minutes had passed. Parker should’ve been there already, but there was no thief in sight.

She was diving, Florence reminded herself. She couldn’t track time under the water. This delay was expected. But still, their waiting in silence, minute after slow minute, was nerve wrecking.

The screens flashed with a studio report and an image of a man, she missed his name and title, who started a thorough explanation of all the dangers with a current of this force, power and temperature, until Hardison couldn’t take it anymore.

He passed the table and took Sophie’s jacket from the bags.

“We’re going to wait for Parker at the bank,” he said to her. “You stay here and monitor everything.”

 _We_? Eliot wasn’t able to walk just for the sake of the company. She looked at Hardison’s grim face when he leaned over her shoulder and pressed a few buttons on comms’ feed laptop. His and Eliot’s line went red.

 _Oh. A private conversation_. She nodded.

“If Nate needs us, we have our phones.”

Eliot was up on his feet again. She felt tired just watching his movements, but smiled and offered the beanie back to him.

He literally recoiled from it, taking one step back and aside.

 _Nice_. He climbed out with a backward glance at it, as if the beanie would jump from her hand and bite his ass. She blinked, standing there like a fool. What was that he had mentioned… psychosis from the overdose that he was still clearing from his head? Maybe he wasn’t as successful as he thought.

Hardison closed the door behind them.

She took the beanie with two fingers and turned it left and right, to see what was wrong with it, but the cap was normal, with nothing on it. After that, she got pissed off – for who knows what time today, as a matter of fact – because she had much more important things to do than to try to figure out one crazy idiot.

A moment of strange silence in the middle of the background reporter’s chatting drew her attention to screens, and what she saw there widened her eyes.

She worked with the best, she really did, and she saw some of the world’s best performances both on the big and small screens. But never in her entire life had she seen this petrified despair – never until now, when the camera zoomed in on the eyes of Sophie Devereaux. Two black holes showing a tormented soul, writhing in agony deep inside her.

The camera panned, slowly, to Sophie’s hand clutched like a claw around an old photo of smiling little girl.

“She would’ve been twenty-five next month,” she breathed.

Florence took one deep breath and slumped into the chair, her eyes glued to the screen.

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***

.

Okay, yes, he almost broke his cover, forgetting where he was, and he knew Hardison was going to call him on his shit. Yet the very thought of the hacker’s infinite nagging and bitching made his blood boil in advance. He had no strength, or patience to endure that now.

Although he expected that Hardison would start with the nag-nag-nag-nag the moment he closed the door, they walked slowly, in silence, to the upper part of the park, a few minutes from Lucille.

It wasn’t easy to walk on wet grass when their eyes never left the surface of the water. He knew there were only two reasons for Parker being late. One, she lost the feeling of time and took longer breaks. Two, she didn’t make it to the yellow bag, and was dead already. In both cases, nothing to do about it _now_ – but he had enough sense to keep that thought to himself.

They stopped on the path that led through the middle of the park, and from where they could clearly see every detail under the Craigie Drawbridge where she was supposed to leave the river.

“You lost it out there,” Hardison said evenly. No accusation when he turned to look at him, no rage, just a simple statement. “You went into an uncontrolled spree – three more sentences, and everybody would be asking themselves why a random bystander knew so much about ratings systems. And the cops had just arrived, you didn’t notice them. Laura would call them if you took just one step forward.”

Okay, there wouldn’t be any nagging. But for one moment he almost regretted that. Nagging he could shake off, but Hardison’s silent worry… not so easy. He opened his mouth but Hardison raised a warning hand. “Parker is late, more than half an hour passed,” the hacker continued with the same awfully calm voice. “I know she can’t judge the time down there – but she. Is. Late. Ten minutes.” He paused, tilted his head, watching him. “Nate is in his manic plotting phase. You’re a risk. I’m waiting to see if Parker is alive or dead. And I’m scared – I’m fucking scared, Eliot.”

He thought a while. Hardison let him think. “All these problems have one thing in common,” he said slowly. “They are nasty while they last; but you have to see their results to judge them. And see if they were problems at all.”

“Just like that, huh?” Hardison came one step closer, searching his face. Eliot put his hands in his pockets – very carefully – and controlled his face, maintaining a calm, inviting silence. Whatever was boiling inside the hacker, he needed to know it.

“Can you tell me, where is that step that we will take, that will send everything to hell, Eliot?” Hardison said. “Nate sent her to jump – and she is late. Too much of a risk for too little – this could be done much easier. And he won’t stop. You won’t stop either – every step you take further will just bring more mistakes, it won’t get better. This ain’t the time for… the PVA with Dvorak Security, FBI, all the mobsters… who will die, Eliot?”

“Don’t be stup-”

“Do you know what is this?” Hardison pointed to the right, to the block on the other side of Nashua Street. He followed his hand, recognized the building, and cursed. “That’s  Massachusetts General Hospital, just a four minutes’ walk from here.”

Yes, he knew damn well what it was.

“You’re worse,” Hardison said. “What happened?”

“I’m okay, Hardison, there’s nothing they can do there that I can’t-”

Funny thing was, Hardison’s legs were the first thing he noticed; the hacker rearranged his balance and he followed the movement of his right foot with his eyes. When he raised them to look at him again, it was too late to do anything – Hardison’s fist was already in a full swing to his face. And it exploded in white-purple blast when he caught him under his eye.

 _Good hip-shoulder connection_ , he thought while flying backwards, stupefied by his own _fall_. This time the landing was much worse. Earlier, when the mobsters tackled him, he was prepared for that. He crashed on his back, slid on the wet grass and mud, and stopped a few meters away, staring stunned into the gray sky, gasping for air. The loud ringing in his ears was a good change – the buzzing was becoming boring.

He closed his eyes, waiting for the pain to pass, or at least dissipate a little. He couldn’t move, and he didn’t have to count to ten to know that the hacker knocked him down. With _one_ fucking hit.

“I thought you would block it.”  He heard Hardison closer, his voice a mixture of rage and desperation. “I wanted to show you how much slower you are, and why it scares me – I didn’t expect _this_!” Okay, he wasn’t the only one who was stunned by this outcome, good.

“Mud, Hardison,” he muttered, not opening his eyes yet. _Damn ringing_. “My hair. Is full of. Fucking _mud_. And _leaves_.”

Hardison just watched him, not amused at all.

He turned onto his left side, resisting the need to curl up and remain that way for hours, and managed to sit up. This was great – he would have trouble deciphering all the sets of symptoms – knocked out and groggy, confused from the fever, weak from other shit, in pain from the wound and hits… for a moment he really felt despair. The grass spun around him and he almost dove face first into the ground when he tried to push himself up.

Hardison tugged at his jacket and pulled him backwards, and the sudden movement spun everything even more, but it lasted only a second. He felt tree bark behind his back, and rested on it with a relief.

Dammit, they really had come a long, long way together. During the first year, he would've beat him senseless if he tried to hit him. In the second, he would yell and threaten him; in the third he would just snarl in warning. And now? He tried to decipher how he felt now, and the realization hit him harder than the hacker’s blow – there wasn’t even the slightest flicker of anger in him. He was pissed off only because he didn’t see it coming, too slow. _Caught w_ _ith his guard down, again_.

Hardison had the right to do this. He had _earned_ that right. And he knew very well why he had done it.

A squishy sound told him that Hardison sat in the mud beside him, and he squinted at him. “Is this the punch you owe me for shooting Parker… or settling the score because I knocked you out in the mobster’s van?”

“How about cut the crap and speak? I tiptoed around you long enough, watching you deteriorating. As I said – you’re worse. Much worse. Why?”

He said nothing. Hardison waited, leaning on the tree as he did; they both watched the dark water over the patch of grass that went a few meters to the bank.

“Nate is trying to take you down,” Hardison said after some time, quietly. “You weren’t needed here, we could have left you to rest in the apartment after we dealt with Knudsen. I wouldn’t be surprised if he just continues with another action, without a break. I haven't figured out yet if he is trying to make you realize you can’t go with us tomorrow, or if he’s trying to make you _unable_ to go.”

He carefully felt his cheek bone; it would be purple tomorrow. “That’s just one part of Nate’s doings, Hardison,” he said slowly. “There are more hidden layers, you don’t know all of them. I know most of them… and he is right. He has to do it. And he is succeeding.”

“In what?”

God, he was so tired.  He bit his lip and took one deep breath. It hurt. On many levels. “At making me…” He thought. And almost smiled. “…me.”

He felt Hardison move, and knew he was watching him now, but he refused to meet his eyes. “You can’t go without me,” he said, keeping his gaze on water. “You’re right, I am worse. I messed up the stitches in the sniper attack. I feel like shit. More than that. And it doesn’t matter.”

“Eliot, I knocked you down! Me! What the hell you think you’ll be able to do at the PVA, except kill yourself?”

“Everything else?” he tried a half smile, but it didn’t feel right. “No, you’re right. I don’t know what I can do. I’ll simply do everything I can. It might make a difference.”

“At what cost?”

“There’s no getting out of this for me, and you know it.” He wanted to close his eyes, but he had to look at that damn water. “I still don’t know why I am alive at all,” he whispered finally. “By all rights, I should’ve been dead. I ought to be dead.” This time, he stopped Hardison’s attempt to speak with his hand. The hacker huffed but stayed silent. Damn, his thoughts were too slow, untangling them took an effort. “Maybe… maybe I’m alive because That Night ain’t finished yet. Maybe I have to finish all that crap before I finally…” he stopped, realizing he didn’t know how to end the sentence.

Hardison flinched; their shoulders were touching, he felt it. “No, it ain’t finished, and it’s not only on your back, we are all still…. burdened with it. But it won’t end at the PVA, don’t be a fool.”

“Only after that will I be able to stop. Not now. To stop, and try to, to… something, anything… to be able to rest. I don’t know.”

Nothing disturbed the dark surface of the water. Hardison’s hands were clutching his thighs, unnaturally immobile.

“I told you I’m scared,” the hacker stated. “And you ain’t calming that down.” He scrambled to his feet and stood before him. “But do you know what scares me the most, Eliot? When you say: finished, for That Night… you really mean _paid off_.”

Oh, damn, he had to remind himself again not to underestimate him, ever.

The hacker crouched before him, their eyes at the same height, and he couldn’t avoid looking at them. Yep, now he felt a slight touch of anger, the tree behind his back was blocking him and he couldn’t move away. Hardison _earned_ the right to do this, he had to remind himself, to stay calm. “Don’t you dare go to the PVA to _pay_ your debts, Eliot. Because if you do it, I’ll kill you myself and spare us all the misery.”

 _What the hell_ … “I w-”

“How about no?” Hardison pointed a finger at him. “How about you finally shut the fuck up and just nod? ‘Cause I ain’t saying this twice – no paying off anything, not any such shit – a simple in and out, with no risk, no drama, no scaring other people.”

The simplest thing to end this was to just nod, so he nodded.

Hardison uttered a pissed off snarl. “You ain’t alive just to kill yourself because That Night is still in your head – you’re alive to _stay_ alive. Understood? And now - why don’t we simply go to Mass Gen to see your Dr. Sciortino and see what he can do with those stitches. I’m not saying you should stay, just make sure everything is all right.”

Fuck no, if he set foot there, he wouldn't be coming out for a long time. They had all learned their lesson, he wouldn’t be able to escape again, and the very thought of all that shit sent a new wave of chills through him.

And of course Hardison noticed that. Before his blurry mind sent an order to the muscles to stop him, Hardison’s hand was on his.

“Fuck, man, you’re burni-”

“Just stop, okay?! The drugs are working – nothing to worry about.”

“Who are you trying to convince? Me or yourself?”

Before he could answer, he caught a movement out of the corner of his eye – a passerby, a woman with a green jacket and pink umbrella, walking in the rain and slowly coming closer to them.

“Move away and look unsuspicious,” he snarled, knowing very well that two soaking wet guys, sitting in the rain, in the mud, were everything but unsuspicious.

But when the woman lowered her umbrella, Parker grinned at them.

“What are you doing?” she chirped.

They stared at her. He looked at the water, just in case. She came from the avenue.

She reached out her hand and put her umbrella over them, too.

“I found the yellow bag without a problem,” she explained. “But my wig slipped when I jumped, and though I grabbed it immediately, I lost it while putting the flippers and container on. I had to find it first.”

Why? His mind made a flip back. Hardison didn’t look any brighter himself.

“What? I couldn’t risk somebody finding out that their missing corpse was disguised, if they fished out the wig, it would be suspicious. It was only a matter of time before they sent a search party and divers. And the wig went down with the current, not _up_ , duh. I caught it around three hundred meters down river, and couldn’t dive up again, to pass under the bridge and all those people, so I simply climbed out, snatched a jacket and umbrella, and walked here.”

Hardison fished for his phone. “Nate, Parker’s out, we’re going home. Meet you there.”

The hacker got up, waved a dry jacket he brought along, shielded from the rain under his own. It was clear that his initial intention was to wrap it around the thief, yet he changed his mind at the last moment, just pushing it into her hand.

“So, what’s up?” Parker asked, still standing before them, with that concentrated, sharp expression she usually had while watching laser beams dancing before her eyes.

“Boring waiting in the rain, that’s all,” Hardison said. Yet, his voice was much softer when he turned to him again.

“Home. And rest.”

This time, he really had no objections to _that_.

.

*


	50. Chapter 50

 

Chapter 50

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***

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No matter how bad he felt, Eliot still had enough strength to grumble something about the awful rain, mud, and chill, using it as an excuse to go first in front of Hardison and Parker. Hardison tried – as he often did, and always futile – to explain to Parker that he was worried about her. Eliot didn’t have to see the blank expression in the thief’s eyes to know that this time, too, it would stay just an attempt. But, it was important to Hardison, so he let them follow him, step by step, taking their time. After all, he _was_ freezing.

Darkness, silence, and sitting down – he needed that badly. His mind was able to process one thought every ten seconds, he could feel it shutting down, and he barely suppressed a relieved sigh when he opened the door.

In the next second he saw Florence, the tears streaming down her face, her eyes stricken and desperate, and he froze.

“What happened?” he whispered.

She gasped. “Sophie.”

What?! Ten different catastrophes went through his mind, swirling one around another… police, mobsters, unknown enemies, known enemies, more police, and every combination of that. He looked at the screens, and saw Laura’s face, looking exactly like Florence’s, tears pouring out. “What?” he repeated, pulling out his phone. Nate should’ve called them. When he looked at the screens again, he saw different a scene, different face – the reporter in the Channel Six studio, sobbing her heart out, with her face buried in her hands. Live, on air.

Just then it dawned on him, and he put the phone back in his pocket. “She did her grieving mother speech?” he asked.

“You, you, you said that like it was nothing,” she stuttered. “I saw one policeman falling to his knees, crying! She, she, she…”

He tapped her carefully on her shoulder. “It’s okay. She does things like that from time to time.”

“I _have_ to get her on my show!”

Dear god. He wasn’t sure if everything spun around because he took his first step toward his corner, or because he imagined _that_. Whatever it was, he crumpled on the floor. Okay, he had accomplished the sitting thing. Now he only needed darkness and silen-

The side doors opened again, letting the light in, directly into his face. “Florence!” Hardison sounded alarmed. _And loud_. “What-?”

“Everything’s fine,” he said before she could answer. “She wants Sophie to act in M7.”

“Oh,” Hardison gasped. “I would cry too, if I thought about that, that’s for sure.”

“What?” Now it was Florence’s turn to look confused.

“Never mind.” Hardison moved to let Parker in, and Florence got distracted – she _almost_ hugged the thief. “Florence, can you drive?” Hardison continued, wrapping the thief in all the clothes he could find in the bags. “I have to continue monitoring all the reports and recordings.”

“Sure.”

The next thing Eliot noticed was that they were three blocks away from the park. And he had only blinked once. He needed to do one more thing before he finally stopped thinking, and he pulled himself out of the lulled floating where the soft chatter of reports and the purring engine had pushed him.

“Hardison, call Nate,” he said. Fishing for his phone was too demanding now.

Hardison connected their earbuds back online, and put Nate’s feed on speakerphone.

“Nate, you’re driving home? Left the bridge?” he put all his strength into his voice, sounding almost like normal.

“Took a taxi for a few streets, and then took a rent-a-car. Why?”

“Can you stop on your way home and buy-” a loud screeching of tires covered his words. “What’s going on? What are you doing?”

“What happened?!” Nate’s voice went into a hiss.

“What would happen? I need a bigger vase for George. Can you buy it?”

“You fuck- no accidents? Flying, ricocheting, any sort of accidents?!”

He sighed  tiredly. “You’re strange. No accidents. Fifteen inch vase, okay?”

The low pissed off mumbling abruptly stopped, as if Nate pulled his earbud out, and instead of his voice, Sophie’s smile trailed in. “Of course, darling, we’ll buy a vase. Any particular color?”

“No, white will do. Thanks Soph.”

He took out his earbud too, and the clear voices became just background chatter again. It didn’t bother him, and he didn’t try to follow the meaning. He knew Hardison was taking care of everything online. He could close his eyes and float away.

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***

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Eliot scarcely remembered anything between the last part of riding in Lucille, and the moment the first cold drops whipped him in the shower. The shock gathered him almost instantly, and he quickly assessed the situation. Cold water to lower the fever, check. Bandages off, check. Thank god, his clothes were also taken off, he didn’t crawl into the shower fully dressed. He even prepared the dressing in advance, and brought new clothes, double check.

He hoped he did have enough mind left to lock the door – all of them were damn free with his bathroom time.

This shit was helping, and he felt almost recovered, with his thoughts surprisingly his own, after all the blurry mess that crawled through his brain today. Yet, he knew it wouldn’t last long, he had to hurry with everything before he crashed.

Towels, hair, bandages, pills, clothes. The line was tiresome but he continued with step after the step without stopping or resting, fueled by the brightness from the reduced temperature.

When it came to putting his shirt on – and at that point he knew he didn’t have much more time – he regretted not being this clear-headed when he chose one of Sophie’s shirts. He'd grabbed a white one with little blue flowers.

He cleaned up everything after himself and tied back his hair, now clean of mud. A quick check in the mirror wasn’t encouraging, though. Nothing could cover up his drained eyes, glazed and burning from the inside. The half-darkness in the apartment would help, their windows were still shut and blinds lowered.

Nate and Sophie still hadn’t arrived when he returned to the living room, although he was sure he spent much more than half an hour in the bathroom. Florence and Parker were on the sofa, clearly both had used the upper bathroom, and they were comfortably wrapped in blankets. Hardison typed something in his chair, and the screens tilted with reports.

“Good news,” Hardison raised his head to him. “Look at this. CNN reported international actions.”

The hacker put one recording on all six screens, and a CNN reporter talked about #SeaOfCrimson balloon actions spreading all over the world. Three short clips showed actions in Sweden, Malaysia and Australia.

He knew he should say something, but he couldn’t come up with anything intelligible, except: good. The painkillers still hadn’t kicked in. The good thing was that he didn’t have to worry about it – Hardison just nodded and lowered the volume. He was free to continue to the bed.

George was alive and unspoiled, though there was soil around the vase again – but he looked strangely impatient today. He put him aside as well and climbed into the bed. Which squeaked.

He sighed and opened the blanket, pulling out a squeaky mouse that _somehow_ got under it. He wasn’t sure if it was a gift, or the first stage of attempted murder.

He had no strength to care about plants and cats right now – about anything, for that matter.

He rested on the pillows, finally. Before he could think of anything, which was a good thing, the darkness just sucked him in.

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***

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For the past five minutes, relaxed and content for a change, Florence had been watching Nate.

He was sitting at the dining table with a laptop in front of him, but he paid no attention to the screen. He held a string in his hand, some sort of ribbon, and he played with Orion. Well, playing was a very generous description – he leaned on the table with one elbow, and held the ribbon in his other hand, letting it sway in front of Orion’s nose.

Every ten seconds, Orion would move his paw towards the ribbon, and Florence knew he just wanted to be polite and entertain this strange human who was obviously bored.

Hardison’s occasional glances told her that she wasn’t the only one who found that scene a little strange. Parker didn’t notice anything, she kept her nose stuck in the giant sheets of paper that Hardison had pulled out of nowhere. The thief went over it inch by inch, with a delight reserved only for readers enjoying a good book. That wasn’t strange, not even for her, anymore.

But Nate…

He had no idea what was he doing, that was clear. And Florence could see and feel that his mind was doing something that had no connection to playing with the cat. Every few seconds, a strange, small smile would appear on his face, and she wondered what was really going on in front of his eyes.

“Oh dear.” Sophie’s quiet voice interrupted her thoughts.  The grifter just came from the bathroom. Her hair was in its normal state, and she didn’t have on all the make-up that made her look older. “Is Nate trying to train him?” Sophie continued, sitting by her at the sofa. Parker moved away to make space for her, still keeping her face just two centimeters away from the blueprints.

“I don’t think so. Or, if he tried, he would find out it was futile.”

“In Nate’s vocabulary, ‘to train’ means ‘to put a spell on somebody’,” Sophie smiled at her, looking her directly in the eyes. “He ensnares people.”

Damn, was there a significant tone in Sophie’s words, or she just added it by herself? The truth was, every time Sophie looked at her, she felt that sharp mind probing. And she had learned that whichever accent she used, there was always one special note in her voice when she wanted to tell her something in no way connected with her actual words.

She looked at the man with the ribbon again.

Orion turned his back on him, annoyed.

“People, maybe. But ensnaring the cat… hardly.”

“It seems so,” Sophie stretched herself like a lazy cat, curling up on the sofa and grabbing a magazine, but she saw herself on the screen and smiled. “Look at that! It’s disturbing, in fact, that I managed to look so old and ruined.”

It wasn’t the make-up, Florence knew that. She had seen her performance a few times by now, and every time she found something different in it. The way her eyes seemed sunken in her face, the downward twist of her mouth, wrinkles on her forehead – and she didn’t have any now… Meryl Streep could eat her heart out. She decided to say nothing, though, because the somewhat strange reactions of the others told her that there was something very sensitive about the matter of Sophie’s acting. Waiting to see what that was about was the best course now.

Hardison’s quiet whistle drew their attention to him – he pointed to the screens, not raising the volume.

 _Breaking news. A day that America cried_.

Sophie let out one small, joyful sound. Not only did Channel Six make a broadcast about the suicide, every large TV network did too, mixing it with the #SeaOfCrimson actions and YouTube video of Las Vegas fireworks spectacle. The Magnificent Seven had been trending the entire day on Twitter, and Florence simply stopped checking all of her social media notifications – it would take weeks to catch up.

“Nate, are you listening to this?” she asked in a short silence, when the CNN reporter sniffed and waved to her crew to take her off the air. “You know, I was skeptical when you started this, this… media campaign; but now, it’s…real.”

“You don’t have to have a flying horse, Florence,” Nate said. “You only have to get the media reporting about the other media who report the other media’s report on the flying horse… and he is real, present, everywhere. If it’s said on the news, if it’s in people’s ears and minds, he is flying. The same goes for M7 – if people constantly hear that M7 deserves a season six, it deserves it.”

“And it will work even on Brewer?” she asked, almost willing to hope.

Sophie slowly turned her head from the screens to look at him.

He said nothing for a moment, waving the ribbon in front of Orion’s nose again. Florence glanced at Hardison to see what he was thinking about it… and Hardison diverted his eyes from hers, pretending he was busy with his keyboard.

She opened her mouth, then closed it. Waited.

“Yes, it should work on Brewer,” Nate’s answer came after three seconds, said in a normal, light tone.

Hardison was still avoiding her eyes. Sophie watched Nate, her face expressionless.

“That’s great,” Florence said with a smile.

They were hiding something from her, she knew it. Not just the usual ‘the less you know, the less you’ll be involved’ kind of hiding, no. There was something else here, something connected to the Season Six part of the job, and she had felt it before. She just couldn’t decipher what kind of hiding, or lying, they were doing.

Mostly, _why_?

She trusted them, all of them – and still, one part of her brain, even now, was carefully studying everything that they did.

What if Nate’s plans had something else in it, and she was only a useful circumstance? What if he was doing something else, more important than her show? What if she was being used for something? _Put under his spell, right_.

She sat motionless, with her heart sinking. It would be easy if they screwed her over the first or the second day – she had almost expected them to kill her in a bathtub then, for god’s sake. But now, after she learned to trust them, after she liked them, it would be painful… No, she added to herself slowly… after they _made_ her like them. _They are grifters_. They manipulated people for living. Maybe Eliot’s job was to seduce her, to distract her from thinking about their motives. Maybe…

She took one deep breath and almost laughed at her own frantic thoughts – damn writer's brain, making up plots out of nowhere. They were close to the climax, only one day from the final battle, and her sense of dynamics naturally expected some twist, a turn of the tide at the start of the third act. Especially after everything went so well with Knudsen and the mine part of the job – a betrayal instead of a counterattack would fit perfectly in this deep breath before the plunge.

She forced herself to return to real life, to _feel_ the real life around her. It wasn’t fair of her to think like that, to doubt them, especially not now. They all risked their lives.

Parker jumped from the Zakim Bridge just to add some drama and feelings of guilt in their campaign. She didn’t have to do that.

Her own guilt grew into shame.

They had every right to hide things from her – but one thing she had learned with them… they wouldn’t betray her.

And that was the only important thing here.

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***

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Eliot was sure that he woke up after only ten minutes of sleep, but his inner clock told him that more than two hours passed. It felt so easy to continue sleeping, he was just one second from falling back, but he forced his mind to start working. He opened his eyes to half-darkness and tilting screens in front of his face, and saw a bluish stage with two guys from Supernatural.

Last year’s PVA ceremony, it could be only that. The volume was lowered almost completely, but loud applause could be heard. The guys were talking about something; how women could find those baby faces attractive to the point of twenty-four/ seven voting, was beyond his comprehension. They spoke in turns and he analyzed them quickly – relaxed with each other, very good friends, extremely high social skills, on the same level of attractiveness – nope, he could do nothing to them, not in this short of time. Besides, they looked likeable. But then camera showed the audience, groups of people – mostly women – applauding. They had different shirts, with two different names on them.

 _Interesting_.

He watched it for a few more minutes, until they gave an award to some blond girl and left the stage. Then he paid attention to the room that surrounded him.

The silence was strange. The only sound was purring – Orion was curled on his arm, staring directly at his eyes, so he could guess what woke him up – and the sound of quick typing. Typing was expected, yet the direction from which it came was wrong.

Hardison was in the chair in front of the screens, and he had his headset on while watching the video. The typing was coming from the dining table. Nate had a laptop in front of him, and his fingers flew over the keyboard faster than he ever seen him type before. He also had a pretty smug smile. If he was writing down his plots, for a change, _that_ would be a document worth learning how to hack. Or simply directing Hardison to do it.

“You’re awake?” No matter how concentrated on his typing he was, Nate had noticed he opened his eyes. “Able to think and talk?”

Thinking was going okay, for now, but talking he yet had to try.

“If completely necessary,” he said, carefully. That was going good, too.

“Okay then, jump in.” Nate finished his document with one elegant click, and moved the laptop away. “The post–job briefing. We have to see what we have done.”

Two blond and one dark-haired head emerged over the sofa’s backrest – they were invisible until he sat up in bed. He couldn’t see what they were doing, but the sounds of papers told him that Parker moved some blueprints, and something greenish mysteriously disappeared back in the box with the Louis Vuitton logo. Just great – he forgot about the PVA ceremony dress – they could expect hours and hours of panic and frantic preparations tomorrow, multiplied by three. Okay, two – Parker was out of it.

Getting up went better than he expected, the painkillers were doing their magic, but he took only two steps before stopping. Occupied with thinking about Supernatural and dresses, he picked up Orion to bring him to the sofa. Not George.

 _Jesus_. He carefully put the cat on the bed, and took George, avoiding his stare. “Still half sleeping, don’t start,” he muttered quietly, just in case. Every damn leaf radiated the pissitivity level *don’t try to measure*.

He shooed Hardison from the chair, sat in part of it, and put George next to him, not on the floor. Orion followed him, he noticed it when Hardison sneezed and moved away to the opposite chair. Orion jumped without any hesitation and curled up on his lap, just a few inches from George. He had a feeling he would pay for this dearly. Good thing she didn’t have a parrot or something, the damn thing would sit on his head.

“I guess we are _all_ … comfortable,” Nate said, taking the stool for himself, and he knew that smirk. George knew it too. “Hardison, run the reactions to Knudsen and the mine.”

“Shit, wait,” he said, feeling his blood going cold. “I have to call Betsy and tell her not to come. I’ve delayed that for too long.”

Identical little smiles flew over their faces, but nobody asked why he didn’t want her to come.

“It’s not safe for her,” he said, pulling out his phone. They watched him with barely suppressed, annoyingly cheerful expectations. “Ever heard of privacy?” he growled, getting up. “Yeah, right, wrong people, how stupid of me.” He went into the bathroom, feeling those damn smiles tickling his back, and locked the door behind himself with a loud click.

First of all, he measured the bathroom with one glance to see if there was enough space to put the hospital bed in it - it would be sensory deprivation he needed the most. Damn _people_. Annoying people.

He had practiced his speech to Betsy a few times during the calm parts of the day, and there wasn’t any chance she would guess something was wrong. He sorted everything out, logical and reasonable. He found lying to her to be absolutely impossible – not because she was so good at figuring out his lies, but because he had trouble forcing himself to lie at the first place. Avoiding the truth was a better approach, and he had five possible courses for that.

He called the number and waited for her to answer.

“Wait just a second,” she said instead of _hi_ , and continued explaining a therapy change to someone. “Okay, I’m here,” she said in normal tone after a few seconds.

“You’re still working?”

“Just finishing paperwork, ready to go.” He could hear the rustle of papers while she talked, and the closing of a cupboard. “Now, you’re not calling because you missed me. To be honest, I can’t think of any normal reason why you would call me. Which leaves us with non-normal reasons. What happened?”

“We had an attack on the apartment yesterday, they used a sniper. So we have over a thousand bullet holes in here, and metal boards over our windows. It’s not safe for you to come. Going through McRory’s isn’t good enough anymore, I can’t risk someone noticing you.”

“Ah. Everybody is okay?”

“Yep, nobody was hit. But it could happen again, and I don’t want you nearby if that happens.” He listened to the short silence on the other end. “You don’t have any objections?” he asked carefully.

“No. You said it would last just one more day, and you are finishing that tomorrow night. That’s still in force?”

“As far as I know, yes.” His caution grew with every second of this.

“Oh, that’s great,” she said gently, and he barely stopped himself from nervously tapping his hand on the sink.

“And you agree it’s wise to pause for one day, not coming close until we finish this? Just like that?”

“Of course I do. You are a responsible, clever young man who would never do something stupid, reckless, or dangerous, and who is very reasonable.”

 _Here we go_. He took a deep breath. “Okay, _what_?!” he growled.

She chuckled quietly. “You _are_ getting better and better at this,” she said with a warm tone that almost made him smile. “But you said one wrong word in your explanation, just one. _Yesterday_.”

“What’s wrong with yesterday? It _was_ yesterday, I wasn’t- ah, shit.”

“Exactly. That sniper attack was yesterday, and if there was any danger for me, knowing how overprotective you are, you would've called immediately, and not waited until now. So, scratch the danger part of this crap, and what’s left? There’s another reason you don’t want me to come. What I must not see, Eliot? What have you done?”

Nah. He _did_ try. “First of all, I wasn’t lying – I don’t want you near now, mostly because I’m selfish. I can’t worry about you, on top of everything, and we don’t know what can happen until tomorrow.” Now he tapped his fingers on the sink, it felt good. Calming. “Second, I might’ve messed up my stitches a little. Not much, seriously. There wasn’t any need to call you, I stitched it up myself, no problem at all.”

Okay, _this_ silence was dreadful.

Betsy cleared her throat – the best sign of accumulated anger. Yet her voice was calm when she spoke. “You _do_ remember everything I told you about that? You _do_ remember all complications I listed? You do-”

“Okay, no need to speed up, I’m fine. I was even out today. Briefly. And I’m planning to spend the entire day tomorrow just resting. Promise.”

“Not good enough. Okay, you have two choices… first, I’m coming now-”

“Nope, out of question. And I’m not kidding, Betsy. They almost killed the woman who brought Florence’s dress, right on our door step.”

“So, the second thing – when you finish that PVA shit, you’re going to Mass Gen to do all the tests, to see Sciortino, and see what needs to be done.”

Okay, that wasn’t so bad. Many things could happen up until then.

“Okay, deal.”

“Nuh-uh. Promise.”

“What?! Jesus, Betsy, if you want a pinky swear-”

“I want your word.”  Her voice fell, bleak and without any smile in it. “I know you hold onto that.”

He bit his tongue. This was how he ended up with a Facebook account – but this wasn’t as bad as it sounded. He could go to the damn hospital to check… maybe he ought to go anyway.

“Okay,” he grumbled. “I’ll go to Mass Gen after the PCA. Satisfied?”

“No, pissed off. You’re in the bathroom?” How the hell she could know- probably because of the silence around him. “How many anti-inflammatory pills are left in the bottle?”

He tried, very quickly, to calculate how many would there be if he didn’t take double doses a couple of times, but it was a lost battle.

“The highest temperature was 102,” he sighed. Lying when sighing went better, always. “And it was going down during today. It will be alright very soon.”

“I don’t know what makes you so idiotic, but it really works,” she said in an unimpressed voice, another sign of her real mood. He was glad she wasn’t anywhere near. “I’ll make sure to work the night shift tomorrow night,” she said ominously, and cut the call.

Damn.

He glanced at the mirror, caught himself still squinting, and erased that shit from his face.

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***

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Four cheerful expressions were waiting for him when he returned. Even Parker grinned briefly before diving back into the blueprints.

Only Hardison watched something on his laptop, with a frown close to unease.

“And, what did she say?” Sophie sang.

“All went well,” he said shortly, returning to his chair. Watching Hardison.

Florence’s eyes were wide open and innocent. “Ah, well as in I’ll cry myself to sleep tonight, or well as in…well, it’s Betsy, so there’s no other option. Did she yell?”

Honestly, he had to do something with her attitude. He mourned the shell shock period. It passed too soon. He tried a dreadful glare, wordless and ominous, reserved only for lynch mobs over twenty armed people, and she _chuckled_.

“Nate, did you by any chance keep one or two of the Chinese boxes?” he turned to Nate.

“Hey! That’s not fair!”

“It _wouldn’t_ be fair,” Nate nodded. “His family needs all the parts for a proper burial this time.”

“His family?” said Florence.

“Erm, Nate,” Hardison raised his hand. “If you have a second here-”

“This time?” asked Sophie. “Bonnano found out who he was?”

“No, DNA analysis takes much longer-”

“Damn right,” Florence grumbled.

“-and it would last for weeks if someone didn’t tell him where to look.” Nate stopped, watching them, waiting for them to speak. They all looked back with the same expressions. Hardison lowered his hand with a sigh. “C’mon, you _all_ know who the guy in the packages is.”

“We do?” Sophie asked carefully.

“A vampirized guy from the recording,” Parker said. They all looked at her now. She raised her eyes from the papers. “A blood-drained-guy that they buried?” she explained.

Nate took the remote from Hardison’s hand, and Eliot could swear that the hacker didn’t even notice until he started to go through the menus. “Hey, wait, just tell me what you want to find-”

“Luigi Polenghi,” Nate said. “Parker is right.” The screens tilted with a short recording they all recognized now – a funeral with Don Lazzara and Knudsen, and many men dressed in dark suits. “Do you remember it now? A friend of Don Lazzara, killed shortly after the Boston casino mess. Police didn’t find the body, but the amount of blood found at the crime scene confirmed he was dead without a doubt.”

What Eliot remembered from this recording, was seeing Don Lazzara with cold, stone-hard eyes for the first time.

“And Don Lazzara’s nephew had his body parts in his possession,” said Sophie. “That’s… interesting to know. You think they killed him together, for who knows what reason? It would be strange that Don Lazzara didn’t know, or approve that.”

“Wait!” Florence said. “If Bonnano knows, or he will soon know, who that man was, that means that Don Lazzara will be accused as an accomplice as well? Maybe, when dealing with Knudsen, we dealt with the entire mob threat.”

 _Only in scripts_ , Eliot wanted to tell her, but he kept silent. He didn’t have to say anything, because Nate’s lack of response to that was enough for her. Her face fell a little, and she nodded.

“It would be extremely difficult to connect him to that murder,” Sophie stated carefully. “But maybe it’s not that important, maybe he is left out of equation, and off our backs.”

 “Nope,” Hardison said, taking the remote back from him. “Can I have some attention now, finally? Forget about funerals and murder accusations, will ya?”

“Yes, you were trying to say something…?”

“No, I was trying to _show_ you something.” Hardison’s voice was bleak. “Make yourself comfortable.”

This didn’t sound appeasing at all. Eliot leaned back in the chair and crossed his arms. Parker, reacting more to the sound of Hardison’s voice than to his words, straightened herself up and set her face into concentration mode, the face she used when she tried to look as if she was participating in the briefing. He wondered, watching her, if she was still going through the lines of the blueprints inside her head.

The screens showed Bonnano giving a statement. The Detective opened his mouth and Hardison stopped it. “Nothing important, successful action, organized crime, smuggling ring broken, blah blah.” He clicked the remote again, and another image appeared, a file. “This is the written statement of Commissioner Kimmel – nothing to worry about, no connection to us whatsoever, just mentioning the Concerned Lincoln Citizens, no names, no details, but the mine is going out of business for good.” He kept it only five seconds, not enough time even to read the title. Another image showed some sort of analysis results. “This shit is connected to the monitors and silica particles, moving along…”

“Hardison, what the hell…” Nate started but Hardison raised his hand.

“Reactions to Knudsen and mine going down, in fast forward. There isn’t anything that would demand our attention, I checked everything. And everything went well. They are screwed, we're covered.”

“But?”

Hardison sighed. “This,” he said, clicking the remote once more.

The reporters caught Don Lazzara in front of City Hall. Eliot remembered he was a member of the City Council. He didn’t look upset because of many hands pushing microphones in his face, nor did he have someone with him who would help him go through them.

He just stood there, smiling – a good-hearted, benign old man, with a smile carved into his red cheeks. He smiled, and smiled, and the reporters, one by one, stopped shouting their questions.

The hands holding microphones moved away.

“Thank you,” he said quietly, and they shut up completely to be able to hear him. “I don’t have an official statement. I’m just an uncle who is worried for his beloved nephew, and very concerned because of these strange events that happened in his mine.”

And he looked exactly like that, Eliot had to give him that. A simple, nice man, honest with his feelings. _Damn grifter_. He had heard the Death in his voice before – that sound he would never forget.

“I’m afraid my Robert is just a victim here – there are many people who would try to hurt me using the people I love and care about. He will have the best lawyers, and we will do everything in our power to prove this was a setup. Justice will prevail.”

“Do you know, or suspect, who might be behind this – alleged – setup, Mr. Lazzara?” one voice from the crowd raised in question.

Don Lazzara turned to that man, directly into the camera. All six screens showed his face, his eyes and smile in every detail.

“I do,” he breathed. The two giant eyes narrowed slightly, showing the small wrinkles in the corners. It was enough to completely change his expression, though the smile remained the same. _Hard as stone_. “I talked to my nephew. He has his own… suspicions.” He paused and his eyes slowly moved, as if he was searching through the camera – it felt like he was watching them all, one by one, all of them just two meters from the screens. “I will do everything in my power, and I mean _everything_ , to find them and… bring them to justice.”

Just great. That little pause in his sentence sounded just like he wanted it to sound.

“And I have a message for them.” The smile fell from his face in a second, shattered like a frozen glass, revealing the hard cut of his tight jaw and cruel eyes. Without that smile, his voice became the voice Eliot remembered, power and cruelty mixed into one, fueled with an icy cold rage that simmered under his skin almost visibly.

He slowly blinked, focusing his stare directly into the eyes of the viewers. “I am a Guest of Honor at the PVA ceremony. I’ll be there. Waiting. And I’m looking forward to meeting you.”

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*

 

 

 

 

 

 


	51. Chapter 51

Chapter 51

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***

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“Hardison, this interview with Don Lazzara… was it live or did you record it?” Eliot asked in the dull silence that fell over the room after Hardison took Don Lazzara’s face off of the screens.

“Recorded… was in the news about two hours ago.”

Hardison didn’t ask why he was asking, he didn’t have to; if Don Lazzara had started his engines already, they were sitting ducks.

“Are we leaving?” Eliot looked at Nate who was looking somewhere between Hardison and Florence. Probably at the wall. “A few cops coming to McRory’s for that free drink from time to time could mean something to Knudsen, but they ain’t enough against Don Lazzara.”

“You’re right, they aren’t,” Nate nodded, with the same absent look. “We need much more.”

Eliot said nothing more, knowing that Nate was working fast on solving the problem.

“You said that all your safe houses had been compromised,” said Florence. “Where can we go?”

“If we decide to go, it won’t be a problem thinking of something – but we shall look at other options first. Hardison would need half a day just to set his working console up.”

“If I may suggest something… I used it in one episode…” Florence said, hesitating. “Hardison can find all the apartments and houses Don Lazzara possess, and we can break into one, and move into the place he would never expect to find us.”

“With a cat and a plant?” A quick smirk flew over Nate’s face. “Good thing you used it before… because I would start to worry if I were you, if you just now came up with that.”

“You don’t have a monopoly over criminal thinking,” she smiled at him.

And that smile was strange. All of them were visibly worried, even Parker was silent; they knew what they were facing. But only Florence didn’t look upset by the news.

“Why are you so cheerful?” Eliot asked her directly.

“I was expecting some plot twist, this is the perfect place for it,” she shrugged, still smiling, but she seemed unable to meet his eyes. “If I was writing this as an episode, I would now seriously raise the stakes. And this, no matter how nasty it is to have Don Lazzara after us, something we tried to avoid from the beginning, is much better than all the shit that went through my mind.”

He tried to stop himself, but it was a futile attempt. “Something to share with us?”

“Oh, nothing big,” she smiled again, watching him now, and all of them, with attentive eyes. “Just a betrayal of epic proportions.”

Shit, he knew she suspected something… and he knew all the trouble that could arise from that. Nate didn’t share with them anything further about Florence being the mark here, and not Brewer, but he had a feeling it wasn’t something she would approve or be happy with, in the end.

“Oh, I thought you were the only one paranoid here, Eliot,” Sophie said with a smile that matched Nate’s.

Florence’s smile faded. “I’m not paranoid, my worries are real, and I have proof.”

“Don Lazzara is more important,” Nate said. “But okay, he can wait a few minutes. What’s wrong, Florence? Who would betray who, and why?”

The bastard managed to say that in an absolutely normal tone.

“It already happened,” her voice fell. She hunched in her shoulders the same way she did during the first few days, before she accepted them as they were… and then she looked directly at him. Her eyes were _hurt_. “May I have my cat back?”

What? He looked at Orion sleeping in his lap, peacefully curled up.

Sophie’s soft chuckle didn’t help. “Oh, dear, first you came up with moving into Don Lazzara’s apartment, and then you grifted him… very soon your episodes will be-”

“She didn’t gr-”

“But she did… she distracted you with something else, at the same time watching our reactions. It was standard fishing with a twist. Well done, dear. It’s okay not to trust us completely. In fact, I strongly suggest you continue questioning everything you hear or see.”

“Great, Sophie, do encourage her,” he growled because it was expected from him. Florence smiled because that was expected from her.

But they all knew she did this to provoke their reactions, to see if her suspicions were justified, and that left a very unpleasant feeling in his stomach. He got up, giving her Orion with a ceremonial bow.

“Thank you.” She hugged the sleepy cat. “And for your information, I talked with George while you were sleeping. He likes me. So we’re even.”

He squinted, but he had enough mind left to say nothing to that.

Nate was squinting, too. “Hardison,” he said with a pained voice. “How long it will take to hack into the Boston Police department? Their employee records, and internal email?”

“They are already on my list of assessed things… once you open a door you need, you don’t have to break in every time, just use the spare key you created. No traces, of course. Their computer division is good, but they ain’t-”

“Okay, I need you to find me officers who have birthday today and tomorrow. Two will do, we don’t have too much space. If there are more, choose the two with a lot of contacts.  Get into their internal email and send their circle an invitation to a surprise party at McRory’s, invite as many as you can. Starting in two hours. It will be almost evening by then. One celebration in the main room of McRory’s, the other one in the back rooms, in the poker back room. That way the back entrance to the building is covered. Call a few catering agencies and arrange several booths with free food and drinks on the street, between McRory’s front door and the building’s entrance, to cover the front gate to the fort.”

Hardison stared at Nate. “No problem. Do you want me to get Bruce Springsteen to sing to them?”

“C’mon, you can do it.  The three of you won’t leave the apartment before we gather a huge police crowd all around, so you can start working as well. Parker, finish the blueprints, Sophie, get on that sponsor thing finally, Eliot and Florence… where are you with your episodes?”

“Starting the fifth season,” he said. “But not yet, I have a few ideas for my Legion… and the voting is still on.”

“And what are you going to do?” Hardison hissed.

“Think,” Nate smirked, returning to the dining table. He opened his laptop again.

Parker moved just a little, pulling the papers in front of her again, and Hardison dove into his laptop with the face of a martyr.

Florence watched Sophie with clear concern in her eyes. “Erm, Sophie, maybe it will be wise to help you with the sponsor thingy… it was confusing you the last time we talked, even Hyundai.”

“By all means… I’m helplessly lost with that concept.”

Florence went to get the lists of sponsors, and Eliot had enough time to glance at George, suspiciously, while picking him up to take with him.

This time, George was unreadable to him. And silent.

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***

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Eliot sat in the bed with pillows piled behind his back, and he was looking directly at the sofa and the screens on the wall. Parker was the only one he couldn't see, she was lower than the sofa’s backrest. Florence and Sophie were visible. They sat facing each other.

He opened his Facebook group, but he watched Sophie. Maybe he should try to speak with her now, while he was relatively well. He couldn’t tell how Nate didn’t notice that something was bothering her. But, on the other hand, Nate hadn’t been in the bathroom with them, he didn’t see her in that moment of strange insecurity and worry. Without that, her behavior could be seen as worry because of the jobs, nothing more. But that insecurity was dangerous. A grifter couldn’t allow herself to waver; especially not this grifter. Not now.

And what was that with the sponsor problems? He had seen her going through dozens of pages of info for her roles, and no matter how complicated it was, she never had trouble understanding anything.

He sighed and closed his eyes, but enjoyed the darkness for only a few seconds. It would only take a minute to put him to sleep again. His fever was still lowered, and the painkillers were working, finally, but it brought a relaxed feeling that he couldn’t allow himself now. Hardison was working at a frantic speed, arranging, hacking, ordering, and before they saw the results of Nate’s gathering police around them, he couldn’t even think of sleeping.

He listened to Florence’s explanation of the sponsorship process, at the same time entering his Supernatural group under a fake account. Not only did he have a real one, now he was making false ones, all by himself. _Gruesome feeling_. It took only a few seconds to find images from last year's PVA ceremony, to remind himself of the names of the two guys he was looking for. Sam and Dean.

The PVA voting would end some time tomorrow, before the ceremony, and there wasn’t enough time to attack on all fronts. But he could do some really nasty shit on the SpoiledTV voting, and remove Supernatural from the race, leaving Castle as the only dangerous opponent.

He spent a few minutes creating a few more accounts – when shit started, the admins wouldn’t have time to look at the join date, too busy with the trouble. Even if they found out that the fire was started intentionally, it would be too hard to stop it in time.

He had everything prepared just as Florence finished with the theoretical part. Sophie was listening to her with immense concentration, and it seemed… No. He looked again. Sophie was having _fun_. Her smile was light and gentle as always, but Florence clearly couldn’t decipher that the grifter was enjoying this, for whatever reason.

“Do you have any questions?” Florence asked, sounding pretty disheartened.

“So…” Sophie took her papers and glanced at the numbers. “I’m a company, and I’m willing to pay so your audience will see my logo and because they love the show, buy my products? And I have no idea how many of them actually did that. I’m blindly putting my money into something that might be completely useless.”

“That’s why they use Nielsen-” they both turned their heads at the same time, glancing at him. He rolled his eyes instead of answering, and pretended to be looking at his screen. But he was studying Sophie, a barely visible glint in her eye. “-to tell them how many grown-ups are watching,” Florence continued. “Financial solvency is the key to this.”

“It’s like telemarketing,” Sophie huffed with disdain. “Like selling bloody cable.”

“Pretty much, yes. If you want a sponsor, you have to call, and nag, and beg, and sell your show on empty numbers, and convince them their sales will jump sky high, which you can’t guarantee, and you depend on the good will of some low manager who might be having a bad day and decide to give money to some reality show because housewives-” Florence bit her lip and stopped. “That’s how it goes.”

“Stupid and inefficient?”

“There’s no other way.”

“Ah,” Sophie tapped her lip with one finger. Her eyes were even brighter than usual, and Eliot stopped pretending he wasn’t listening and watching them. Even Hardison looked at them every fifteen seconds, during pauses in typing.

“There isn’t, Sophie,” Florence said carefully. “Look, we can start small, okay? You know what you can do? We'll find some small store, maybe one here, on our block… It isn’t important what is it – groceries, bakery… any small business will do. You call them and offer them a sponsorship for a famous show. Then you’ll see how it goes.”

Sophie’s eyebrows went up. “A grocery store? Seriously?” She turned to Hardison. “You found me the numbers we were talked about?”

“In your phone,” Hardison grinned. “Though, I couldn’t find anyone higher than a low manager at Samsung, I didn’t have time for real hacking.”

“Oh, don’t worry about that, I’ll call Lee Kun–hee directly.”

Hardison swallowed. “The group’s _chairman_?”

“And how do you think you got that Prototype Seven last Christmas?” Sophie winked at him and pulled out her phone.

Eliot knew what would happen when she tilted her head and straightened her back in a familiar way. “This is Alison Hastings, BBC Director of News and Current Affairs,” she said with an obnoxiously precise British accent, “and I have to speak with Mr. Schiller _now_.” As always, it gave her voice power, even stronger than usual.

“What are you doing?” Florence whispered, alarmed. “You can’t just call _Samsung_!”

Sophie covered the phone with her hand and smiled at her. “Oh, I’m not, dear. I’m calling Apple.”

Florence eeped quietly, but Sophie hushed her with a wave of her hand.

“Good day, Mr. Schiller. I have some disturbing news. I know you are just the Senior Vice President of Apple, but you are in charge of worldwide marketing, and there are some issues we have to discuss immediately. BBC Trust _demands_ to know, Mr. Schiller, why Samsung is sponsoring The Magnificent Seven: The Next generation, with the largest amount of money seen up to this point, and how come BBC had that super-secret information, and Apple didn’t? I spoke with my colleagues and we all share the same concern, regarding our shares in Apple. How could you allow Samsung to get one step ahead of you, again? Your maps weren’t enough? What’s going on?” She listened for a few seconds with a cold smile. “I understand completely. Well, when you find out, let us know. I’m not eager to tell my colleagues that it seems that Samsung is becoming trickier every day. You are aware that we won’t be able to hold this information for too long, and you have very little time to react? Find out what’s going on. Thank you.”

She hit another number, and her smile grew warm. “Good morning, Lee,” she purred. “You remember I owe you one? Well, I have information that might interest you… Apple.” She chuckled softly. “Yes, I thought you might be interested… Check your channels and do it quickly. The grapevine is saying that Apple is running a race, to catch a sponsorship with the hottest news today, The Magnificent Seven. They are planning to do it before you, and brag about it endlessly. I thought you might want to get even for that million you had to pay them… yes, exactly. Kiss kiss.”

Sophie put her phone down, and tapped Florence's hand. “When you sell something dear,” she said, “You have to make them _want_ to buy it. You push them, but if you do it the right way, they’ll continue on their own, sure that it was their idea from the beginning, and the harder they have to work to buy it, the stronger that conviction is. It’s very simple, in fact.”

“Sophie, you just pushed Apple and Samsung in the fight about M7…”

“No, I just pushed M7 into their _existing_ fight. If you can’t create a conflict, use the existing one. And, now, let’s see, what do we have here….” Sophie went through her contacts, searching the menu, and Eliot watched Florence. She still looked perplexed – he thought she had gotten used to things like this by now.

He glanced at Nate, to see what he thought about this, but Nate wasn’t paying any attention to the group on the sofa. He was _typing_ again.

“Guten Tag,” Sophie said softly this time, but letting her Oxford pronunciation come through the words. “This is Alison Hastings, BBC Director of News and Current Affairs.” She waited, listening to the response, smiling all the way. “Of course it isn’t common for BBC directors call you, but that, if nothing, should show you the seriousness of this matter. We need your statement – unofficially – so we can see how to make public a very sensitive matter. You are aware that your dearest competition is planning to use _your_ vehicles as burning wrecks in five episodes of the series The Magnificent Seven: The Next Generation, while the main actors will drive _their_ cars and win every car chase?” Sophie moved the phone a few centimeters away, frowning – the reply must’ve been very loud. “Yes, now you see why a director is calling you – it’s not something we can make public without a thorough investigation. And yes, I agree it’s unheard of.  Unofficially, they won’t show your logo, of course, but your cars are very… recognizable, and even as car wrecks, your limos will be noticed. For now, it’s not signed yet, they are still negotiating with the writers and producers, but I can tell you for sure – whoever wins the sponsorship will be able to gain an advantage. No problem, I can wait until you talk with your Board of Directors. Have a nice day.”

By the end of her speech, Florence was covering her face with one hand, but now she peeked through her fingers. “Guten Tag? Don’t tell me,” she said. “You called Mercedes Benz?”

“Oh, no, that would be too much for the introduction,” Sophie shook her head. “I called BMW,” she ended with a grin. Then she clicked on her phone again, dialing another number. “ _This_ is Mercedes.”

Eliot stopped his own grin, wondering how many lessons Florence would be able to swallow before all this finished. Knowing Sophie, she started with the easy targets… and she didn’t look like she was about to stop.

Well, he had his own business to take care of, so he tuned her voice out, and opened a new post in the Supernatural group.

He paused a second, and then wrote: _I was thinking about one particular problem_ …

Nate was still typing.

 

*

 

 

 

 

 

 


	52. Chapter 52

Chapter 52

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Make dinner, or rest and preserve strength? Eliot was pondering the pros and cons, but Hardison had directed a catering agency to their doorstep, after they delivered the food for the gathering police, and not only was dinner covered, but they also didn’t have to think about food for tomorrow. It was a shame, because cooking helped him think, always, and he needed to go through all his steps on Facebook and see what else he could do to the Supernatural fandom.

For now, everything was going fine. In a less than an hour, things started, fires were ignited, and his presence with comments was optional. It was enough to say something from time to time, from different accounts, to stir the mess if he saw that it was calming down. And that was it.

Evening was slowly crawling nearer, and he was tired. Two hours of sleep helped him survive, but it didn’t rest him, and he knew he had to do something to keep himself alert and awake. Reading comments was too passive, just like watching the episodes would be. They had enough time for that later.

He got up, carefully. His painkillers were military grade, not those that Betsy left for him. Fancy civilian pills were useless in real trouble – military doses were in powder form, stronger and faster. And it was time for another dose. He went into the bathroom, using a quick shave as an excuse, but when he returned nobody seemed to notice anything. Sophie, who had finished the sponsor list, leaving Florence speechless – a trick he should learn too – was quietly talking with Nate at the dining table. The others were still piled on the sofa, some resting, some working. Hardison didn’t stop typing, except when he went to get a bottle of his juice.

There was one important thing he could do, and he should do it before fever started to rise again. Nate and Sophie bought a new pot for George. White, but with the same Leverage logo on it as the old one had. Now he knew why it took them so long to arrive at the apartment. There was a message in it, he knew it. The bag of soil was ready, and he only needed newspapers. And George.

He spread newspapers on the floor near the stairs and bags, under the barricaded windows, far away from everybody curious. He could sit relatively comfortably, on two small stairs, but even those simple preparations left him drained and half breathless. The painkillers were deceptive and dangerous just like the morphine had been; they dulled the pain, making him feel better than he really was. Especially now, when every careless move could further mess up the already opened wound. The pain was a useful signal that he overdid something, and not an enemy.

“Time for a change,” he said to George, pulling him out of the pot. The old one had two bullet holes in it and one small piece was missing. _That_ was the reason for this, and not Sophie’s babbling about growing, breathing and all that confusing crap she attacked him with in the slaughterhouse. Besides, he noticed that Orion had dug at his roots through the bigger hole on the side. Sophie would say he was _helping_ George, digging for bullets, taking away the things that hurt him. Bullshit. His claws could only slice into him at the roots; into the heart of the plant. Slicing the leaves wasn’t as dangerous, it was like a skin cut, shallow and easy to forget. But roots were deep and vital, leaving them naked and exposed, damaged, with scars that wouldn’t heal…

George watched him like Hardison used to do sometimes, with wide open eyes, with a message, waiting for him to get it, unnerved and impatient.

“You know, I think I spoiled you,” he said quietly. “You allow yourself too much. You are not, really, able to communicate – I’m just allowing you to think so. Why, I still don’t know… seemed to be a good idea when we started. But now you’re becoming too moody and demanding. Relax.”

George sighed, resigned.

“If I was lucky, the psychosis would bring me a sexy blon… redhead to talk to, and not a stupid tree,” he continued, shaking the tree slightly, and taking off all the loose soil clumps. He put him aside and cut open the new bag, filling the new pot with fresh soil.

Just then he noticed Orion sneaking from his right side, to attack George who was unprotected now, his roots visible and open. The cat jumped with his paws spread, with diabolic joy in his eyes, but he managed to catch him half way to George.

Well, that’s why the painkillers weren’t always a good solution - he would have thought twice before making that sudden and too quick move, if he wasn’t dulled. This would hurt as hell usually – now it just hurt.

“Hey!” He put him on the floor and frowned at him. “No.”

Orion tapped George’s roots with his paw.

He picked him up, made an eye contact. “No,” he said firmly. He held his eyes for a few more seconds, then put him in the same spot.

Orion thought for a second, tilting his head a little, then tapped George again.

Jesus, how the hell he was supposed to put any sense in that cat?

George quietly cleared his throat. “Yeah, I _know_ he is playing me, thank you,” he grumbled. And what now? If he picked him up again, he would feel stupid, knowing that the cat provoked him to do it because it was funny to him... and if he didn’t, the cat won again, because he gave up on disciplining him.

“Okay, you can stay, just move away. And behave.”

And as if Orion understood what he had told him, he jumped on the clumps of soil lying on newspapers, just like a small kitten would do. The damn monster was making him _want_ to smile, in spite of George’s rolling of his eyes.

He continued with the soil business, while Orion murmured happily around him, playing and trying to tear the newspapers apart. Distracting him with dirt clumps went well, but it was too close to actual _playing_ with the cat for his liking, so he decided to concentrate on George.

He put him on the soil in the new pot, and now it was a sensitive phase – tucking him in the new one, carefully. Another bullet fell out from his roots, one he had missed before. Orion accepted the shiny metal thingy with joy, and chased the bullet all around him on the wooden floor, until he managed to push him into the half empty soil bag. Sophie would probably say that he would have missed this bullet, too, if Orion didn’t paw George twice, he just knew it. Continuing with a thorough explanation how the bullet would continue to poison him from deep inside, just like the morphine did, until he got rid of it, and how Orion cleaned that, giving him…. Jesus, he was pissing himself off thinking like that, he had to stop – every damn thought was ambiguous, and she planted that shit in his brain intentionally.

With something that sounded almost like a squeak of joy, Orion jumped into the bag of soil that he left lying to the side, in search of the bullet. _Shit_.

“Get out.” He bent to look into the dark opening, pulling up one side to look at the cat. One dirty paw flashed out, missing his fingers by the thread. Murmuring came from inside, and the bag jumped up. Orion was twirling in _black_ soil, for crying out loud, he would never hear the end of that.

“Get. Out,” he whispered again. No results, except more twirling. He tore off a strip of newspaper and used it as bait, and first one paw tried to catch it, then finally Orion showed his head.

Well, white was _so_ last season. It took five tries to make him come out, covered with soil, greyish with black smudges, but when he finally grabbed him, the cat had no objections to it. Orion happily held the strip in his paws, purring like a train, while he tried to brush the soil off of him.

“There you go,” he said gently, putting him back on the floor.

“Did I just hear an unmanly sound?” Hardison’s voice sounded suspiciously close and he quickly turned around. The hacker was standing by the sofa with a phone in his hand, _recording him_. And the other four heads were all turned in his direction, too.

“What the hell you think ya doin’?” he growled. Orion jumped away at that sound, and dived head first in one of the duffel bags piled under the window. For a moment he felt relief – finally, someone he could still scare – but then he felt awful for scaring him in the first place. Which pissed him off even more.

“Blackmail material,” Hardison said gleefully. “Eliot Spencer, playing with the cat. And cooing to the cat. Simply adorable.”

“You better, you-” he bit back the words; there wasn’t any threat good enough for this. “Mind your own business. Now.”

“Yeah, yeah, I hear ya,” Hardison put down his phone. “Scary. Now stop plotting my untimely demise, will you, there are witnesses around.”

“And yet, despite the look on my face, you’re still talking?”

If Hardison’s grin went wider, his head would split – but he turned around and sat back in his chair. The four other heads, as if on command, turned away, too, in all directions.

 _Damn nosy bunch_. He made a mental note to get the marker pen – this pot needed to have Associates scratched out, and IDIOTS written on it, too.

He tucked George into the soil, and observed him for a while… again, he couldn’t say what he was thinking now, except that he wasn’t amused by this invasion of privacy. _As if we have any privacy left_.

Cleaning up and gathering the newspapers took a minute. He was tired as hell, and he needed to return to the bed and lay down with his eyes closed, to recover from this. Not to mention that George in the bigger pot was heavier than usual, and he gritted his teeth while carrying him back to the bed, to put him under the light. Military or not, no drugs could diminish the pain of directly pulling every torn muscle.

He rested, leaning on the wall beneath Old Nate, just breathing, before he went back to put away the rest of the things he'd used.

Then he heard a clanking from the duffel bag where Orion was hiding.  A bunch of bags were piled there, and he knew that Florence’s stuff was mixed in with the things from the second apartment near Mass Gen; rummaging through her clothes was the last thing on his mind. Yet, that clanking didn’t sound like fabric, so he risked the bitching and opened the moving bag completely.

A very happy cat was having the time of his life with a metal circle – he read somewhere that cats liked to play with various rings – but the problem, which froze his blood in an instant, was that the ring was a safety pin, just barely attached to a hand grenade. Orion was trying _very_ hard to pull it out, using both claws and teeth.

He slowly reached in the bag and took the grenade away from him, holding the pin pressed in, then even more slowly reached with the other hand and picked up the cat. He put him on the floor and kicked the bullet with his foot, sending the cat on a wild chase, away from the bags.

He checked the grenade. Put it in the bag. Slowly. Closed the bag. Remembered to breathe.

“Parker.”  The breathlessness was clearly audible in his voice when he whispered. “Why do we have a bag with hand grenades, in the apartment?”

“Francisco’s stuff,” she said, not disturbed at all. “I didn’t use all of them in Estrella. Couldn’t leave them in Lucille, right?”

“Parker,” he said again, still not turning around, still staring at the bag. “How many bullets were flying in here when the sniper attacked us?”

“What? Why… oh.” She went silent for a second. “Well, none hit a grenade, so it’s irrelevant.”

He sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. Ricochets had made cheese of that wall, the bags _were_ hit by bullets, and if just one bullet hit this one… he took one long, calming breath, turning around to face them.

Silent, and pretty much pale, all of them.

“Keep it closed. Orion almost activated one now,” he whispered and dragged himself to the bed. “And be quiet a little, okay?” he said when he closed his eyes.

They did as he said.

Yet, four paws walked all over him, to the pillow. Orion bonked his head at his face – hitting, with perfect aim, the exact spot where Hardison’s fist left a bruise – and curled on his arm, cheerfully purring and _licking_ his face.

George hissed a warning.

Jesus, maybe going to Mass Gen wasn’t such a bad idea after all. As in _now_.

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***

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Florence grabbed a small broom to pick up the bits of soil that Eliot missed. After that, casually, she went to wash the dishes. She made popcorn. Then she arranged the marzipan balls in one bowl, sorting them by color. She had nothing to do, except endlessly replying to various comments and messages, and everybody took her moving around as something normal, occupied with different things.

She moved to the other end of the room again, sorting her clothes. Nate had offered her use some of his upstairs closets, but she forgot about that, until now.

That just added to her already miserable mood. The reminder that there was no point in putting her clothes in the closet one day before she left this place painfully stirred the feelings that pierced her heart while she watched Eliot playing with Orion.

She was the first to notice that interplay, having always been aware of Orion’s whereabouts, and she had enough time to study them all – a man, a plant and a cat. There was definitely warmth in that low, raspy voice of his. Orion wouldn’t go near him, ever, if he didn’t feel it too, if he didn’t feel safe with him.

It took only a minute for her to realize that she wanted to join them. To join _him_. And that she enjoyed being near him whatever he was doing, whichever mood he was in.

Somehow, that realization hit her harder than her first one, when she felt she wanted him. Misplaced desires weren’t that unusual, and she knew that it was benign – she had no intentions of taking him into her bed, even if there was a chance, though she wanted to. Lust could be controlled… no, better to say, lust could be kept on a leash, never letting it become something more.

But, this… this was the real betrayal of her marriage and the man she loved – wanting the company of another man, wanting to be near him, to look at him, to listen to him, to want to know him better.

That was what she wanted, and that scared the shit out of her – she wanted the whole package of this gruff mystery. And she couldn’t have it. Something flickered in her heart, something painfully close to sorrow. She would never have a chance to know him completely, to discover all the hidden layers... and she had no idea how losing something you’d never had could hurt so much.

She picked up an armful of clothes and went upstairs, but she turned left in the hall, entering the bathroom, not Nate’s bedroom. There wasn’t a better place for loathing over herself, especially when sitting on the floor.

 _Just one day_ , she reminded herself, for who knew what time since this had started, but now it sounded like a curse, not like the promise of freedom.

She missed Jethro, badly. But she also missed that damn idiot downstairs, and she saw him only a few minutes ago. And it was crazy, and impossible, and dangerous, and she couldn’t understand how that could happen.

Just _one_ more day.

A soft knock on the door made her smile. She should’ve known that escape was futile. She also knew who was the only one able to see through innocently taking clothes to the closet.

“Yes, Sophie?” she asked, suddenly aware that she wanted her to come after her. “If you’re going to ask me what I am doing, well, I’m in the bathroom, as you can see. Do you want to come in?”

Sophie entered without reply.

“What tells did I have this time?” Florence asked.

“I don’t need tells,” the grifter smiled. She kept her distance, staying close to the sink and mirror, glancing at it and arranging her hair. Florence watched her for a few seconds, half worried because she was able to notice and understand a subtle easing of the pressure. Free from her piercing eyes, she had time to think and decide what to say.

“Is it possible to love two men at the same time?” she heard herself asking, almost surprised. But she had nothing to lose – she knew it was impossible to hide anything from her.

Sophie glanced at her over her shoulder. “For you? I don’t know,” she said softly. “For me, it was the most constant thing in my life. I loved two men for many years. One of them was always changing – I loved all my boyfriends, some of them for months, some of them for years. But I loved one man, the second of the pair, at the same time. He was married, with a brilliant career, a beautiful, smart wife, and a little son. I couldn’t have him. And that changed nothing.”

“You didn’t feel guilty?”

“Nobody should feel guilty because of love, darling. People try to tame love, to define it, to restrict it with regulations, culture, customs – but in the end, it’s just something beautiful. Loving someone is… a gift to that person. You can’t command it. And you surely don’t diminish it by sharing it, on the contrary. The more you love, the more you…can love.”

“It’s not that simple,” she whispered.

“It never is.” The dark eyes were watching her now, but it wasn’t unpleasant. “Especially if you’re in a position where you have to choose. I could live with loving and wanting a man whom I couldn’t have. I wasn’t forced to choose just one. Some people can’t live like that.”

She stared at her. “I wasn’t thinking about… I’m not – I don’t, really, have a choice. I mean, he isn’t – he doesn’t –”

“Where is your home, Florence?” The question cut off her stuttering.

“With Jethro,” she breathed without thinking.

“Then go home, when all this is over. Only there you will know what to feel and what to do. Not here,” the grifter waved her hand to the door. “Not with _him_ so close. He is a dangerous, enthralling man.”

“Yes, I _noticed_ that,” she scrambled to her feet. “If I’m lucky, this will disappear when I’m gone.”

“Then it wasn’t love at all, so there's nothing to worry about anyway. Just infatuation with a sexy man, nothing more than that,” Sophie said casually. “Love is need. Love is wanting much more than sex.”

That made her flinch inside, and for a moment she didn’t know what to say; to tell her everything, or to keep it on this level. No, nobody deserved to be burdened with her miserable little drama, not now when they had serious shit in front of them. But at the same time it felt pointless to hide how deep she was in this. Sophie knew.

“I really didn’t need this,” she murmured unhappily. “Not now.”

“Neither did he,” Sophie said. “Not now.”

What was that supposed to mean? She knew already that he was attracted to her as well, but she considered that only a guy thing; it would probably be like that with any other woman in her place. _Would it be_? Sophie must’ve seen everything from the very beginning, even before she, or he were aware of it themselves, and watching her now, Florence realized that she had no idea what Sophie was, actually, _thinking_ about it. It was futile even to try to read the grifter, her features set in a neutral expression, with a hint of a light smile.

And that light smile faded while she watched her thinking. “You know nothing about him,” Sophie said.

Was that a warning for her, or for his sake? She could feel Sophie liked her, a lot, but she also knew that if there ever came a situation that called for choosing between her, and Eliot, Sophie wouldn’t think for even a second. She picked up her clothes, using it to cover up all the thoughts that reeled through her too-readable mind.

“I don’t need his history to know him,” she said carefully, studying a green blouse on top of the armful of crumpled mess. “I’ve seen glimpses of it in his eyes, and I’m not a fool, I can feel what’s lurking deep inside.” Now she raised her eyes to meet Sophie’s. “But you, Sophie Devereaux, would die for him, if needed,” she whispered. “All of you would. Because of what he is. Because he is worth it. I’ve seen enough of it to know it’s worth finding out more, knowing more, _wanting_ more – and yes, it _is_ some sort of love.”

The dark eyes softened a bit. Oh yes, there wasn’t any doubt where her loyalty lay – but she obviously said something that eased the grifter’s worries. _Am I good enough for your hitter, Mrs. Devereaux?_

“I have one day,” she continued, aware that her sadness and bitterness was showing. “I have nothing. And maybe I’ll have only a memory of, of… that nothing, when this ends. And that’s okay. I won’t do anything that would…hurt him. If that’s what worries you.”

“It’s a little bit too late for that.” There wasn’t an accusation in her words, just a simple fact – and it was also a gift for her, Florence realized. The grifter knew very well what she had just told her right now. Her heart fluttered with a stupid happiness, and she hated herself because of it.

Sophie turned her back to her, facing the mirror; an unusual, sudden move. Florence had never seen her losing her grace and calmness before, and that turn was as close to it as she knew she would ever see.

She waited.

After a few moments Sophie looked at her over her shoulder, her eyebrows furrowed and eyes full of…doubt? Worry? No, there was something even darker in them.

She didn’t want more disturbing things. “Let’s go downstairs,” Florence said, putting a smile on her face. She clutched the clothes tighter and made a step to pass by her to the door.

“Florence…” Sophie stopped her with her hand. Her white, long fingers rested on her sleeve for a second. The grifter _hesitated_ , Florence realized with growing worry. “I don’t know what awaits us at the PVA ceremony. I don’t know how it will end,” Sophie said slowly. Her voice fell further, almost to a whisper. “I don’t have a good feeling about it.” And it wasn’t the grifter anymore, there wasn’t any pretending, no calculations in her eyes – just a simple woman struggling with words. Scared. “Eliot takes his responsibilities very seriously. When he can’t do much, like now, he compensates for that by doing and giving... everything. Tomorrow, that everything can mean exactly that. Everything.”

Her mouth went dry. “What are you trying to say?” she whispered.

“Love doesn’t torture… regret does.” She paused as if not sure what and how much to tell her. “Missed chances, words left unspoken. If there… if there isn’t a second chance.”

Her words felt like a blow to the gut, cutting off her breath; she didn’t need this to remind her how scared she already was. But seeing Sophie scared, too, made her realize that she didn’t really know what would happen tomorrow. And how would one man, barely able to stand, keep them all alive. Including himself. _Especially_ _himself_.

“You, you – you’re not conning me or grifting me right now, whatever?” she stuttered.

The dark sadness in Sophie’s eyes gave her the answer even before the grifter shook her head.

She had basically told her to go for it, because he might die tomorrow. Jesus, Sophie _knew_ him. What did she see or feel in him, or fear, that forced her to tell her _that_?

“He told me that winning was only refusing to lose,” she whispered. “He won’t lose.”

Sophie let go of her sleeve, straightened the crumpled fabric with a few gentle pats.

And said nothing.

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	53. Chapter 53

Chapter 53

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“Okay, it’s time to call it a day.” Nate’s words stirred Eliot from drifting on the verge of sleep, and he opened his eyes to half darkness. Parker was already dressed to go. He blinked just once, and the thief was gone.

Quiet singing from the street, that had disturbed his thoughts for some time, told him that they wouldn’t have any problems tonight, their going home would not be dangerous – two birthday parties were in full swing.

Hardison had reported that the entire block was swarming with police officers, coming and going out of McRory’s, and many of them being already off duty, it promised that the parties would last the entire night, and include a lot of alcohol.

He was freezing in spite of the blanket. The cat sleeping beside him radiated warmth, but it seemed that the rest of the room was icy cold.

“Nate,” he called, wanting to ask him what was up with the heating, when he realized that both Nate and Hardison were only in shirts. Damn, the fever was going up again. And he couldn’t take more pills, he already took a double dose for the evening and night.

Nate was watching him, waiting for him to continue, and for a moment he couldn’t think of anything to say – he couldn’t ask about the heat, Nate would immediately know what was up.

His phone saved him, though the loud ringing stirred him painfully.

“It’s Bonnano,” he said when he checked the caller ID.

“You know what I think about coincidences, Spencer?” Patrick said. “McRory’s?”

“So, Hardison invited you, too?”

“No, but I’m coming along with the two invited friends. If you planned to surround yourself with police tonight, you did it well – as far as I know, the word spread, many more will come, not just those you lured in,” Patrick paused. “Anyway, I talked with Betsy…”

“Don’t tell me she called you to intervene – what did she tell you?”

“Nothing concrete, just that if she smacked the stupid out of you, there wouldn’t be anything left. So I’m calling to have you explain that ‘stupid’.”

“We had…disagreements about my therapy. And it ended with me promising to go to the hospital tomorrow, so there’s not much time to do anything ‘stupid’.”

“Ekhm, come again, how much time did you need that night to-”

“Knock it off, Patrick – I’m in bed, recovering.”

“Seen that before, too,” Patrick sighed, “Okay, give me Nate- no, no need, just tell him to come down for a quick drink when I arrive. I’ll brief him about your Kimmel woman and all the evidence in Knudsen case.”

“Okay, I’ll tell him.” He ended the call. “Patrick will call you to McRory’s, he is coming to the party too. About Knudsen,” he said to Nate.

“Okay, Hardison, you’ll come with me, before you go home. Maybe he will need something from your data,” Nate said, then looked at him again. “Wanna join us?”

Testing, again. He could force himself to go, and look fine, but it would be too exhausting now, after this entire day of running around. “Nope, too many cops. Some of them might remember my description from chasing me around town… can’t risk that now.” Of course Nate knew that, he was just probing.

“Yes, of course.” Nate nodded and got up from the table, coming to him with large sheets of paper. “While we’re at the bar, take a look at these blueprints for the PVA. We’ll discuss everything tomorrow. Parker said she knows every step of it, being able to break into-”

“Not the same, Nate,” Hardison jumped in, clicking the remote. “This will complicate things, take a look.” The screens showed warnings in red letters: _The National Weather Service spokesperson has said that the impact of the recent wet weather will continue for "several days"._ The combination of heavy rain, strong winds and high tides has brought flooding to many Boston areas.

“There’s a fair chance that underground levels and passages will be flooded,” Hardison said. “We won’t know until tomorrow – but the weather is not on our side.”

“Well, nothing is on our side, so nothing new there,” Nate said lightly, sitting on the working table near the bed.

Eliot knew that Nate had noticed he wanted to say something to him, and that he wasn’t distracted by Bonnano’s call. Nate sat, simply waiting for him to speak. Orion stopped purring, and though his eyes were still closed, his ears turned in Nate’s direction.

“Do you need anything?” The question was strangely direct.

Yes, he needed a new lung without a bullet hole in it, about another liter of blood, and the ability to walk more than one hundred meters without wishing he was dead. And that was just the beginning of the list. He avoided Nate’s eyes, glancing at the screens with the flood warning, and he felt discouraged by all the shit that was on their backs. Nate was right; nothing was on their side. Yet, there was no point in letting his own fears upset the others, so he smiled and shook his head. “I wanted to get rid of Orion, but he’s sleeping. You wouldn’t take him with you, would you?”

Nate raised his left eyebrow, showing him how successful his attempt was, but then he waved his hand to his chest. White fur was very visible on a black shirt. “Everything is covered with it,” Nate said. “You have white shirt on tonight. You can take care of him and see that he doesn’t go near people wearing darker clothes.”

“That’s your final answer?” he twitched a smile at him.

“I’ll think about it,” Nate sighed and rubbed his eyes.

He looked tired, Eliot noticed, studying him. Tired, with barely hidden worry. He wasn’t in his manic speeding phase, so normal for the final stage of any job, and that wasn’t good.

The memory came out of nowhere; one of their phone calls, when he was in his hospital room, Nate in the apartment on the other side of the street – the memory of the warmth he felt when he felt Nate’s tiredness and fear, though he should have been pissed off at him. And his own words he told him then came disturbingly clear **:** _I don’t - I _can’t_ allow myself to be worried about you, not now when I’m not close by.  I _have to_ be sure you’ll take care of everything.  Of everyone. Like you always do_.

He could trust Nate, he would take care of everything, always. But now, it felt like it was too much even for him.

The chill that memory brought had nothing to do with the fever, it was the realization of how much trouble and pain he brought on them. And for the first time he dared ask himself how they all had felt while they chased him all over town That Night.

He didn’t need the answer; he saw it in Nate’s eyes. Even now, That Night haunted them all. They weren’t free.

And they wouldn’t be all worried now, waiting for the PVA, if he wasn’t this bad off. They had the Secret Service, FBI, police, and Dvorak Security to dance with… for hours. He was the one who had to make them safe, able to do their jobs. Their lives wouldn’t be at any more risk than on any normal job, if he wasn’t still paying for his own stupid mistakes that led to this.

His job was protecting them. Not putting their lives in danger, something he did, repeatedly, all these days, being in this shitty state.

He was right. That Night still held its cold hand over them, keeping them in a deadly grip, not letting them breathe. All that he had done, accumulated, was waiting for them at that ceremony.

And Hardison was wrong, during that conversation while they waited for Parker to come out of the water – it was up to him to set everything right, this time. Maybe it was paying all the deaths off, or the fact that he was alive and he shouldn’t have been… or maybe it was something much simpler than that. He already had decided to give his life to protect them, to repay those years they gave him… he could see it through to the end.

If he wasn’t shot, which started all this, they would have a hitter now. They would be safe.

So, they would have the hitter. No matter what the cost.

That was it – a simple decision – but he felt one more of the frozen parts of his heart melting down. Damn, at this rate, he might even be able to laugh again… in about three months.

This time, he didn’t have to pretend when he smiled to Nate. “When you’re worried, we are worried too,” he said quietly, to leave Hardison out of this.

Nate flinched visibly, recognizing the words.

“Funny you should say that right now,” Nate said in the same low voice. “Do you know what I did after that phone conversation? I sent Bonnano and Betsy to drug you and take away all the things you could use to leave the hospital. To stop you by every means possible.”

“Yep, that was an adorable try,” he grinned, intentionally ignoring the parallel to this situation that Nate was pointing out. “Gave me enough time to rest a little and have more strength for leaving.”

Nate’s brows went up, as he searched his face for irony. Finding none.

“Nate,” he started, hesitating, not quite sure how to form what he wanted to say. “You don’t have any real choice, now. You can’t do the PVA without me – not if you want them to live. Don’t even think about stopping me and leaving me behind.”

Nate’s expression grew distant; Eliot learned a long time ago that that was the most dangerous sign of thoughts racing too quickly through his mind. Seeing that was always comforting in the middle of danger – but not now, not when he knew he was the target.

“Them? If I want _them_ to live?” Nate slowly repeated. “Do you remember the most important problem with this team, Eliot?” he went on. “The thing that kept us alive, and that can kill us all at the same time? When other team members become more important than yourself.”

“That _is_ a problem,” he said slowly. “Because _you_ ’re doing it, now. Not me. I’ll be fine. I know how.”

“Yes, I am,” Nate nodded. “The ‘keeping us alive’ part of it. For now. Are you, again, going to take the ‘killing us all’ part for yourself?”

That wasn’t a trick question. Nate held his gaze, waiting.

“I never stopped,” he breathed. “Not since That Night. But it will stop tomorrow, for good or for bad… you will have the hitter.”

The silence after his words was echoing.

Nate got up, putting the blueprints on the bed, startling Orion.

He stood there by the bed for a few seconds, watching him. “The hitter isn’t what we need tomorrow,” he said finally. “Hitters were expendable, you said. You were right. Tomorrow we'll need Eliot. And you remember the difference, I think I explained it to you very clearly.”

 _Damn you, Nate_. He watched him leave, going back to his laptop at the dining table.

His mind was empty; he just stared after him. It was so like Nate to ask only one impossible thing.

And it was poetic justice; the words he said to Florence, that there were no impossible things, just ricocheted directly into his head.

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***

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Florence came back downstairs with the same clothes she took up to the closets, he noticed immediately. Sophie was following her, carrying Nate’s jackets and one complete suit, but they didn’t look like women who had spent a pleasant time talking about fabrics and colors. If he didn’t know Sophie, he would think they were arguing about something.

Florence was restless even before he discovered a bag full of bombs, but now she had an aura of distress around her. He wondered if it was connected to her suspicions. If Sophie had any mind left, she should’ve talked her down.  The PVA wasn’t the place for trust issues. Not even when the suspicions were justified. Particularly not then.

Florence marched to the bags, not paying attention to anybody, but Sophie stopped while passing by the bed.

“I’m going home now,” she said. “If you remember something I should buy on my way here tomorrow, please do not send a message at four a.m. And please, do not be awake at four a.m. either.”

“Yes, Ma’am,” he smiled. Then he glanced at Florence and returned his eyes to Sophie. “Everything okay there?”

“Usual worries.”

“Something I should know, or pay attention to tonight?”

A strange, small smile flew over her face. “I’m not sure what would be wiser: to scare her, or be extra nice tonight. I’ll leave that to your judgment.”

Great. Very helpful.

“And do you have time to talk with me, before you go home?”

He was watching her, noticing a slight twitch. The question surprised her. Okay, it even surprised him – he didn't ask stuff like that usually, maybe never before. But, waiting for her to come to him and tell him what was bothering her was pointless for now. Maybe talking about her problem was the only way for Sophie to leave _that_ night behind.

Sophie avoided his eyes, turning around to look at the others; Nate was at the table, Hardison was turning off his computers, and Florence… damn, she was coming toward them. If Sophie even wanted to talk, now they would have to wait.

Orion jumped on his feet when he saw Florence coming to them, jumping onto the working table to wait for her, and probably give her a report, if he heard the mixture of purring and murmuring correctly, with a few meows.

“Maybe some other time,” Sophie smiled.

“There is no time, Sophie,” he said quietly. “I’d like to deal with it before the PVA.”

Fuck, her smiled vanished in a second. He had said something wrong, but what, he had no idea.

“What?” he asked carefully. “I didn’t mean ‘deal with it’ like doing some unpleasant job. I simply want to solve every inevitable problem before that, that’s all.”

“Why?” She tilted her head, watching him with unreadable eyes. “Why not after the PVA, when we are relaxed and have enough time, Eliot?”

Because he didn’t know if he would be alive after the PVA – but he couldn’t tell her that.

“I’m just… I’m trying to sort things out, to... I don’t know. To deal with the things that can be dealt with.”

She slowly nodded. “I understand,” she smiled with encouragement. “But I asked you why _before_ the PVA? Why not just one day after the ceremony? What would be different?”

Ah damn, she figured it out, she wouldn’t let it go now.  “No reason,” he said, pissed off because he couldn’t think of any logical or reasonable answer. Maybe it was better not to talk right now, after all… he wasn’t quite able to think clearly. And it was getting worse, he was barely able to hide the slight tremble set in his muscles. Very soon it would become visible shivering.

He crossed his arms, cursing the damn bed; it put him in a defensive position, even when he was sitting like now, with his back up against the pillows.

Sophie studied him openly. He _hated_ that, almost as much as he hated this fishing he was forced to use. Probing for the answers with blind questions, not having any idea what he was searching for… it was maddening even on marks, but doing it with Sophie, it was indescribable.

“Just tell me what’s up, okay?” he growled. “What the hell is bothering you?”

“Tomorrow,” she said absentmindedly, still piercing him. What the hell she was reading now – he could never read her, he never knew what she was thinking, even when she was open with him. Talking to Sophie was worse than talking to five people at the same time, all of them poking at him in a different spot.

He smiled, setting his face into a calm expression to cover the boiling inside, a boiling that grew stronger with every second of her observation. This wasn’t normal; he was going from calmness to rage too quickly, and he tried to slow down his breathing.

“Can someone explain to me what this is?”

When Florence started to speak, he felt relief, knowing Sophie wouldn’t continue with this, but before she finished her sentence, he sensed something strange, very sharp in her voice.

She was standing by the working table just a few steps from them, with Orion bonking his head in her hand… but she was looking at Hardison’s laptops silently working there. Orion was standing on one of them, and he knew that the cat had removed the fish screensaver. Revealing the script that was working.

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***

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Florence felt she could cry. Talking with Sophie left a feeling of dread; simple fear was now just a pleasant memory.

And the first thing she looked at, when she climbed down the stairs, was Eliot’s too pale face. Sophie was right… he _was_ giving everything, she had been a witness to that all these days. And it would be the same at the PVA, just like it was in the corridor, in the parking garage under the Dvorak building, or in the slaughterhouse, or in front of the mine. Never stopping.

Stopping meant death, he had told her.

God, she needed a window to smash, to cry and scream, anything, just to stop being so damn scared.

Sophie sat on his bed and they were talking quietly, but she couldn’t help herself, she went to them. She had to look at him and try to find out what was scaring Sophie so much, what she saw, or knew about tomorrow. And the things he would do.

It took only one glance at his tightly crossed arms and the stormy clouds in his eyes, to know he was raging inside; what did Sophie tell him to throw him into that so quickly?

But then Orion stepped on Hardison laptop, and she quickly checked to see if he had messed up something important. It took a few seconds to realize what she was looking at.

“Can someone explain to me what this is?” she said, trying to sound calm, but this pulled every raw nerve and her anger exploded in a second.

Eliot exchanged a quick glance with Hardison.

“Voting scripts for the SpoiledTV poll,” Hardison said calmly behind her; she didn’t turn around. “Three of them.”

“You’re cheating?! On me?” There was a clear note of pissed off disbelief in her voice.

And she saw, in just one second, that whatever anger Sophie had provoked in Eliot, it now turned to a new target.

“Have you forgot who we are, and what we do?” Eliot growled at her impatiently. “Or are you pretending you don’t know?” He was unbalanced, exhausted and in pain, she reminded herself watching the storm gathering in the scowl on his face. _Don’t yell at him. Don’t smash the laptop on his head. Don’t throw Orion on him_.

“The scripts are a very mild form of cheat-” Hardison tried to continue with an almost hypnotic calmness in his voice, but Eliot waved a hand at him to shut up.

“Stop it, Hardison. Yes, we are cheating. What did you expect after you saw us breaking in, planting data, falsely accusing people, tampering with evidence, lying and breaking twenty different laws a day?”

He expected her to back off under this attack, obviously. Florence muttered a curse, turning to him with very, very mad eyes.

“So, finally,” she said. “I bet it was damn painful for you not to remind me you were criminals for how long... almost one day? Two days?” As her voice grew, Orion withdrew from her hand, jumping back on the bed, back to him. He hugged the cat with his left arm.

“Stop scaring him,” he growled. “You can’t pick the things you like, and ignore the whole package. We are not law-abiding citizens – and you knew that from the beginning. You don’t have the right to feel outraged because we were fucking cheating in a poll!”

“I have every damn right to feel what I want,” she said in a low voice. They were all miserable, worried and on the verge of their nerves, she tried to say to herself. _Stop._ _Calm him down_. But she couldn’t. “I’m not angry that you cheated… I’m angry because you tried to hide it from me. Well, here’s some news – I don’t want to be left out of things. Ever!” She pressed keys on all three laptops, revealing all the scripts with a disgusted huff. “But you know what’s the worst?” She darted one twisted smile at him. “That you think I’m a hypocrite who is taking the things that work for my cause, but preach and nag when it comes to less important things. I know what you're doing, and I accepted your methods from the beginning, not because I had to, but because I was able to see you all behind the things you do. I did take the whole package, you idiot. And whatever you do, I find myself responsible. But guess what? I trust you. I learned your boundaries. I know what you’re capable of doing… and what not.”

“Here we go again,” he uttered, visibly trying to control his voice. “Your head is still in TV shows – try, just once, to look at the real world, the real people. We are not nice. We ain’t the romantic heroes you create!” As his voice grew stronger, Orion scrambled from his arms, watching them in turns, terrified. He lowered his voice a little, just a bit. “Do you know I regretted, numerous times, that I saved you in that corridor, because of the trouble you brought? I could've let you die, very easily.”

“And that’s the main problem here – that you think I’m not aware of that!” she hissed. “You accuse me of being unrealistic, but you’re doing it yourself! What kind of fool do you think I am? I _know_ that. You would be a robot if you didn’t think of that, that’s normal. Stop using that as an excuse to diminish every good thing you do! I’m not the one here with a one-track mind, you are.”

“And all of a sudden we’re talking about me,” he growled. “I’m suddenly a problem here, like every time I try to show you how dangerous it is to think that the world is a pink place with people doing good.”

“And what the hell are you doing, if not good?”

“Doing good doesn’t make one good!”

She huffed a humorless laugh at that, and ran both her hands through her hair. Then she quickly put them down; involving her hair in this would be a terrible mistake. “I owe you a talk about changeable and non-changeable people, do you remember?” she said. “In my world, my great, pink world which you despise, actions define a man, only that. Give me one bad person that’s constantly doing good, just one, I dare you! But you’ll have to work really hard to prove to me that he is bad.”

For a few seconds he said nothing.

Sophie was playing the invisibility trick; she didn’t move, but she withdrew and simply disappeared, as if not present at all. Good, her input was the last thing she needed now. She dared not glance at the dining table and Nate, she kept her eyes only on Eliot and the mask on his face.

Orion sneaked from the bed and sat on the floor by George, and they both watched them, confused and scared. Dear god, she was losing her mind. George was a fucking _tree_. He… it, couldn’t be scared or confused. She physically forced her hands to be still, and not to go to her hair again.

Eliot’s arms weren’t simply crossed anymore, they were set in a deadly grip, she noticed.

She could hear the blood beating in her ears in the silence that continued, and continued, until she couldn’t stand it anymore.

“So now glaring is a legitimate form of communication?” she said, but even as she spoke, she saw it wasn’t a glare at all - the intensity on his face muted to nothing. His face retained a deathly white pallor and she felt a pang – she should’ve just ignored his remarks.

“You look at good and bad the wrong way,” he said as if she hadn't said anything, his voice slowed and lowered. It seemed that he started Sophie’s disappearing trick, but stopped a half way there. “It’s not black and white. You can do terrible things while doing good. And the other way around. And even if you’re doing only good, sometimes, it’s not enough.”

She took one long, calming breath, to slow her mind, too. “Enough for what?” she asked quietly, in an even voice. “ _Sometimes_ , the good deed done, only one, equals everything bad.”

“I would need ten lifetimes if I wanted to make it right, to equal the all bad I’ve done. I’m not a good guy, Florence. I’m only doing some good… for now.”

She thought for a second. Nobody tried to interrupt this, and she was grateful for that. “Why is it so important to you to make me believe you’re a monster?” Oh, this wasn’t, maybe a very smart question, it went into dangerous waters; she hugged herself, leaning on the table with her hip. “I mean, it’s not like I’m going to go around, finding bad guys, and trusting them with my life.” He was still hesitating with his answer, so she quickly continued. “I am able to tell a bad guy from the good. And I am also right, people don’t change. Remember you agreed with me then, when we spoke, when Hardison told us about upgrading people, instead of changing? Do you still think the same?”

He nodded.

“Good. You see, people can do good and bad things in different periods of their lives, but as I said, they don’t change. Mindset and character define you, and your behavior is written in your genes.” She paused a few seconds, then smiled. “And that makes you good. No matter what you did in some period of your life. You were… downgraded, temporarily, into bad. Now you’re back to your normal good. I saw it, I judged it, and I can tell what your core is, what have you been before all this started.”

“Stop with the nonsense,” he said tonelessly. “You know nothing.”

“Because, if you want to know a man, look at the things that make him mad, that trigger his anger, and how he reacts,” she finished without a smile. “Your initial reaction isn’t an attack, it’s defending… it’s protection. Your trigger is injustice. You’re doing the right things, for right reasons. Doing good for the sake of good. I don’t need anything more, to know who you are.”

Something changed. The change in his posture was barely visible, he moved his shoulders a little, relaxing them… but she felt it like him receiving a hit, she felt him flinching inside.

Her inward warning said _uh–oh_ , in a very small voice.

He raised his eyebrows, watching her. She expected many things, but not this silent pity in his eyes.

“I killed three men while doing good for the sake of the good,” his voice suddenly sounded distant and polite. Her caution grew rapidly. “But that’s okay, isn’t it? I’m a good guy. Good genes and character.” Not even a trace of anger in his voice.

She cleared her throat. “Policemen are also forced to kill, if _needed_.”

“By all means.” He smiled now – a small, empty smile that made her squirm inside. “And if a policeman, accidentally, shoots some bystander, he is still a good guy, just with bad luck?”

“I guess so,” she replied with caution.

“Would he be still a good guy if he shot that bystander on purpose?”

Hell, she knew where he was going with this, and her mouth went dry. “No,” she had to answer. “But it’s just-”

“And what’s your opinion of a policeman who did that with dozens of people? People who were not a part of that hypothetical shooting, but they were forced to stand in the line of bullets, not being connected to either the policeman, nor his opponents? Who were talked into, dragged and scared into a killing just to serve the policeman’s goals? Who did it knowing exactly what he was doing, and why, knowing they would all die and not caring a bit about it? And who would do the same thing all over again, if the situation asked for it?” He stopped, relaxed his arms a little more, and smiled again. That empty, lazy smile was the most terrifying thing she had ever seen in her life, and her throat clenched. “Tell me, Florence,” he continued even more softly, “how the killing of innocent people, many innocent people, suits your theory of ‘doing right things for the right reasons’?”

She didn’t know what to say, her mind was blank. She just stood there, staring at him, desperately trying to find the right words to prove to him how wrong he was – but there were none. He did it. He really did it, just a few days ago, she knew that… and why then did she feel, without any doubt, that everything he was saying was so wrong? So… incomplete. She was seeing raw pain in his eyes, though he tried to hide it; tormented by all that he had done, aware that he didn’t have the ten lifetimes to make it right.

“The suspense is killing me,” a dry voice from the dining table, painfully clear in the dull silence, stirred them all. Nate slowly closed his laptop when all heads turned to him. He had a phone in his hand when he stood up, and Florence blinked away the tears that had started to gather, remembering where they were. Bonnano. Phone call. Going to McRory’s. Nate was watching them with a slightly tilted head, and sharp, cold eyes. “If this is preparation for watching the fifth season, you’re doing it exceptionally well,” he finished with the same dryness.

Eliot just shook his head.

“Yes, my last season. In which all the good things come to an end.” She was painfully aware that her voice wasn’t as steady as she wanted it to be. “I made the fifth season like it was the last one, just in case,” she went on slowly, tiredly. “To give audience closure. I made a full circle, back to the first episode, their beginning. But I left the end open… to give them a new chance, new hope, something to build on and continue with their lives,” her voice wavered, the tears threatening to pour out. “Because everyone deserves that. Every saint has a past, and every sinner has a future.”

“In your world,” Eliot whispered.

“In my world? The last episode ends in blood, betrayal and death. My world isn’t as pink as you think. But it’s fiction, Eliot,” she wiped away, angrily, the first tears that fell. “Tomorrow, the PVA, is real life – real bullets, real enemies. I’m capable of distinguishing the real death from the fictional one. I am capable of being terrified. Are you?”

“No,” he said simply. “Not when the reasons are right.”

No, he wasn’t, she realized, watching him. He wasn’t terrified, nor scared, not even worried. His mind was set on his job, and finally, she knew why Sophie was so worried. He was going into that for them. Right reasons, this time. No matter what price he would pay. And he wanted it. He was _waiting_ for it.

Maybe that was meant to be; maybe he needed that, to find his peace.

Her heart was bleeding. But she smiled. “The main theme of the fifth season,” she whispered, “is Redemption.”

His eyes narrowed as if hiding pain. For a moment he didn’t breathe. Then he gave her a small nod. Nothing more.

She turned around, stiff and slow, and went to the sofa, passing a frozen Hardison.

She had to prepare the fifth disc, the last one, before their last day here.

All the good things came to an end.

 _In blood, betrayal and death_.

She had one day to love him.

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*

 

 

 

 


	54. Chapter 54

 

Chapter 54

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***

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It took some time before Eliot was able to unclench the grip of his arms in an unsuspicious manner. Sophie was very careful about not watching him at all, and she got up from his bed when Florence went away, but he checked twice before making any move. He was trembling so hard by the time they had finished that damn argument that he was seriously worried they would all hear his teeth clattering.

He was certain he could manage to get through this talk and keep his posture up, yet when it ended, his utter stillness wasn’t a façade, it was the simple inability to move. Too drained.  The intensity of everything that he had said left him empty and exhausted. And numb. Worst of all, he wasn’t sure – he had no courage to test it yet – if his hands were trembling because of the chills that went through him in ripples, or if the shaking was back.

It wasn’t wise to talk about That Night – but he had to, because of her. For her.

He glanced at Orion and George, both on the floor under the lamp; then he looked again. Something had changed in their dynamic, it seemed they were watching him together this time, sitting side by side, pretty relaxed. “And just when I thought I could train you to attack animals for money,” he said to George. George sighed with barely hidden despise. Orion got up and walked away. Going to the sofa and Florence. She just sat there, not moving, not talking – he could see only the back of her head. They had to watch the episodes together, and it would be beyond awkward now. He had no idea what to tell her – if talking to her now was an option at all.

George continued to stare at him.

He sighed back and slowly raised both hands to press his temples. He knew what George was trying to tell him.

And he knew that the thing troubling him, really, wasn’t That Night and all the things he had told her – it was the tears in her eyes, the intensity of her words, her clear need to make everything she talked about  real.

No matter how hard he tried, he simply couldn’t ignore the fact that she cared for him. And the more he was aware of that, the more it pissed him off. It wasn’t _deserved_. She had no idea who he was, what he had done, and what he was capable of – and all her attempts to show him the other side of a coin just made him want to start destroying everything within his reach. _Destroying your own temples isn’t quite a good idea_. He slowly eased the pressure and ran hands through his hair instead.

She had no right to involve him in her vision of what he was supposed to be. For her.

And, he was also aware that everything he did from the beginning, every time he scared her, was just an attempt to keep her at a distance – to not let her get too close. _And you did a marvelous job_.

He sank back in the bed, wishing, for the first time during the past few days, to put a pillow on his face to delete them all, to mute all the sounds and lights. She had no _right_ to care about him, for god’s sake.

For years he had been able to avoid any deeper connection, anything that would come near to a real relationship – it was too dangerous. All those women knew only what he showed them, carefully dosing all the info, giving them just shallow archetypes. Not ever letting them see his real reactions, real feelings, real life situation. And after he had mastered all that, one little weirdo sneaked too close – watching him, constantly, annoyingly, studying him all the damn fucking time – and saw him not only doing his job, being the hitter, she saw him being Eliot Spencer. She saw him… feel things. Fuck, that was the worst of all.

Dangerous for him, dangerous for her. Thank god she was married – dear Jethro was now his best friend. If she wasn’t married, nothing would stop him from thinking about everything possible – and the part of his brain that created mental pictures started to overheat. And overheating was exactly what he needed now, on top of the fever.

Why couldn’t their resident TV writer be a fat, fifty year old guy?

He was scaring her and growling at her just to protect himself, he realized finally – to stop, from the beginning, that attraction he felt.

“I’m going home now.” Sophie’s voice sounded near.

He opened his eyes; she was standing by the bed, and he hadn’t felt her approaching. He also knew that she intentionally said the same words that she already had said before Florence discovered the scripts. _If there’s anything you want to talk about_ …

He erased all the desperation and too-frantic thoughts from his mind. “No, Soph,” he said hoarsely. “Not now, trust me.” But at the same time, he asked himself how it would feel to tell her… no, no way. Eliot Spencer didn’t do that, that… that girly stuff. Not even when he was upset – wait, no, he wasn’t _upset_ – he was just annoyed. The last time he asked her for help – in a very broad sense of the word – was when she had left them, and they had to cope with working without a grifter, without _Sophie_ , when everything was fucked up before Tara came to rescue. And it was just the team stuff, phone calls, nothing personal. Now, this shit was completely different, it was about him. He had a security breach, for crying out loud, and he let that happen. A client – too close, too curious, too fucking cute, too fucking perceptive and clever – and everything he had done to push her away just resulted in her _care_ for him. What an awful word. _Care_. Deadly shit. Care killed people. If Florence ‘cared’ for him tomorrow at the PVA, she might get killed – hitters were not for caring. Why the hell had nobody told her that, instead of all the useless babbling about every-other-damn-irrelevant thing?

He set his jaw and tried to look like he was bored, or some other unsuspicious shit. _Right, very successfully_.

Surprisingly, Sophie watched him with the same disgust/care/annoyance/you’re-a-moron-but-likeable expression that George had.

“Do not tell me you’re on her side in this bullshit,” he heard himself saying and cursed under his breath – he had decided not to speak to her at all.

“I don’t see _sides_ in this bullshit.” She enunciated it clearly, carefully.

“And now am I supposed to decipher your words into something understandable? Not gonna happen.”

Her smile flashed with warmth. “Good night, sweetie,” she said gently, and turned away.

He tried to feel as if he won this.

Nate was waiting for her by the door, with a jacket, he noticed then – but Hardison waved at the two of them.

“Just go, I’ll follow in a few minutes,” the hacker said to Nate. Then he went to the working table. “I can speed the scripts up now that I don’t have to keep the screensavers on all the time.”

Hardison typed for a few minutes with a quiet humming that only accented the silence that fell after Nate and Sophie left. Just when he thought it would end without any attempt of communication, the hacker turned to the sofa. “Yo, Florence, stop sulking and come over here.”

“I’m not sulking.” A voice that sounded exactly like sulking, though he knew she wasn’t, preceded her. He quickly glanced at Hardison; his people-reading skills weren’t always the best, but he must’ve known that she wasn’t sulking. She was miserable.

The quiet humming continued until she joined them. She avoided looking at him, keeping her eyes only on Hardison. Her back was stiff and smile false, he noticed with a sigh.

“Here, look at the speed the mouse is moving,” Hardison turned one laptop to her, with a proud grin. “And two more programs are doing the same thing under this one. Three votes at the same time, nine in total.” Hardison waited for her unimpressed nod, then continued. “And that’s exactly one tenth the amount of scripts voting for Castle and Supernatural.”

She flinched. “What? How do you now?”

“I noticed the regularities in the speed their votes went up, the pattern was too perfect. It repeated constantly, without falling apart, so I checked. I tracked a few of them.”

“If you know they are using it, will they know you’re using it too?” she asked.

“Nah, I put in small random pauses that breaks up the pattern – no bot-tracking program can find me. Keep in mind it’s high school level script, it’s not even something I wrote – I used one of thousands available.” He smiled at her. “This is just gaining some leverage back.”

She nodded again. “I said I don’t have problems with that.” This time she included him in her line of sight.

“SpoiledTV is a relatively small internet poll, the numbers are in the thousands,” Eliot said with growing worry. “What about the PCA? Its has millions of votes. It’s enough if The Walking Dead fans only put in one fucking vote each, and we are already outnumbered by hundreds of times.”

Hardison put on his oh-so-not-mysterious grin. “The fate of the PVA voting is… uncertain,” he proclaimed solemnly.

“And with _that_ , I do have problems,” Florence grumbled. “Stop keeping things from me, please. What are you doing?”

“Not just from you,” Eliot said. “I have no idea what he's doing with the PVA.”

Hardison blinked innocently.

“Not that I want to know,” he quickly added. Now her smile felt a little more natural.

“Okay, you have three questions.” Hardison’s grin became smug. “I’ll answer everything with yes or no – but be aware, you have to ask the _right_ question, or the answer won’t be useful.”

“Did you hack into the PVA databases?” Florence quickly asked.

“Yes.”

“Did you alter our poll numbers?”

“No. One more question. Choose wisely.”

She said nothing, quickly thinking, but shook her head after a while. “Do you have anything?” she asked him completely normally.

“You two are supposed to share the geek mind,” he sighed. “I have a few questions, but not that kind. Threatening relatives isn’t effective in his case, but threatening a certain body part-”

“Hey, hey, I’m doing you a favor here! I could just continue to be a mysterious genius, not giving away anything, but I gave you a chance to take a glimpse at my-”

“Stop him.” Now Florence really smiled; it was a quick one, but spontaneous, and he responded with the same.

Hardison waved his hands around. “Nuh-uh, question first. Last chance. Yes or no answer.”

Damn. He planned to ask him if he lowered the opponents numbers instead, but if the hacker answered no, they would know nothing more than at beginning. And she needed her worries eased, not one more thing to ponder.

“Will Florence like it, at the end?” he asked. Even if he said no, she would at least be prepared.

Hardison thought for a second. “Yes,” he said finally.

The relief on her face was visible. Hardison dramatically struck a few last keys on the laptop, and put it back on the working table. “There you go, my babies are working twice as fast now,” he purred. “I won’t bother you anymore, you have the episodes to watch. Who will keep an eye on the surveillance remote and all that shit?”

They both nodded their heads to each other.

“I guess Orion will be the best choice,” the hacker sighed. “Though, about pressing the red button… he can't be trusted.” He put the remote carefully in the middle of the bed.

“I’ll start the disc,” Florence said to him. “Unless you want to watch it here, on the laptop?”

Nope, definitely not here, the sofa was a much better choice. They could take opposite ends. “No, the sofa is fine.”

She nodded and moved away.

Hardison came closer to him and leaned over to fix an invisible fold on his blanket. He smacked his hand away and glared. Hardison didn’t seem to notice that at all. “Keep an eye on Buck in this season,” Hardison lowered his voice a little. “I had asked Florence about her crew – almost all of them are already in town, they are attending the ceremony as well. Nate said we might need Buck tomorrow.”

He glanced at her; she was moving the papers and blueprints off of the coffee table. Her moves weren’t stiff and restrained anymore. Then he looked at Hardison. Who should be in McRory’s with Nate and Bonnano.

“You have a soft spot for blondes in distress,” he said softly.

“You’re welcome,” Hardison grinned. He looked like he was about to add something, but changed his mind. He waved a hand and left.

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***

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For the first time, he thought about leaving George alone by the bed, behind him. It seemed that the plant and the cat came to some sort of truce; or maybe they just joined together against the common enemy, him. Just in case, until he was completely sure, he picked him up. He really should’ve waited a few more days for the new soil, he weighted a ton.

He took the outer left side of the sofa, Florence was on the right, and Orion took the middle, near the bowls of marzipan and popcorn Florence put there.

The opening credits were rolling out when he sat.

“Before we start…” she said, “We are running out of marzipan.” She watched him as if he was able to produce it out of thin air now.

He glanced at the bowl – it was almost half full. “You have a rose.”

“Oh, I ate it. And a half of Hardison’s green frogs. He was cooing over them, lining them up on his laptop. Next he would start giving them names…. it looked like a waste of good food. Parker ate the other half. And Sophie’s rose, too. We shared hers. So, what you see is all we have, and it won’t last until the PVA. Do you have any plans to make more after the ceremony?”

He listened to her voice; it sounded like her usual too fast babbling, this time probably because the situation was still awkward, but there was something more in it.

He reached for the remote, slowly, to test if his hands would start to shake again. Nothing to see, though he felt shaky all together. No need for marzipan. “No, probably not.”

Her eyes darkened. She put one small ball in her mouth, thinking, glancing back and forth from him to the screens. He pretended to watch the screens, knowing she wasn’t finished with this, whatever it was.

“Hardison mentioned that red button on the remote again,” she said after a minute. “Any idea why?”

“It’s not a reset button… it’s a booby trap. He made something with it, and he's trying to make me try it, so he can gloat and chuckle for days. I’m tempted to press it just to stop him from putting it in every other sentence… but delaying is much more unnerving for him.”

“Oh, so you will do it after PVA ceremony?” She smiled a little, like she was relieved, and he sighed. They wouldn't be able to watch the episodes without solving this shit.

“No, I won’t press it after the ceremony,” he said. Her smile disappeared.

“Why?”

Typical. Yet, he understood why that damn ceremony frightened her. The problem was, he wasn’t able to ease her fears. He could only make them worse. How he could possibly explain to her why he exploded before, and why he found her behavior dangerous?

“Can you do me one favor tomorrow, at that damn ceremony?” he asked, glaring her ‘why’ away.

“What?”

Almost as bad as ‘why’. “Can you completely ignore everything that happens around you, until you’re asked to do something?”

She thought for a second. “I could,” she started carefully, “if you would be so kind as to give me more information about that subject, and explain to me what made you ask that question.”

He felt his smile emerging, and quickly stopped it. “You mean, why?” he asked. She quickly nodded.

“I can’t do my job if… if people pay attention to me doing my job.” _Jesus, what an idiot_. Florence stopped chewing and kept looking at him, with an aura of ‘thirty-seven contradicting explanations’ around her. He took a deep breath and rubbed his forehead. That woman caused instant headaches. “This is how it works, usually, at Leverage: I clear the area around them. They do their jobs. They do _not_ gasp if I’m in danger, or beaten up – they don’t pay attention. They know I’ll do my part, and without that confidence everything falls apart. I can do what I have to do, only if I know that their reactions, and their part of the job, won’t be changed by any eventual danger on my side.”

“Fascinating,” she said evenly. He stopped a low growl at the last moment.

“Tomorrow night, I expect that to continue,” he kept his temper under control, and chose all the words carefully. “You will be there, too – you saw a glimpse of our actions and you know how it works. You have to do the same as they will.”

“Why?”

“Is there any, _any_ chance you will ever say just yes, instead of why?”

“Wh- I mean, I didn’t say no – I just want to know and understand things before I agree,” she stopped and thought. “Eventually agree.”

 _Breathe in, breathe out_. He smiled, feeling all the muscles in his face tightening. “Hypothetical situation… Hardison is going through Corridor A, I’m going through Corridor B. I engage in an unexpected fight. Hardison does not run to Corridor B to help me, he continues to do his job. He doesn’t even feel upset because of it, because it would affect his job. Do you understand what I expect from you tomorrow?”

The light of understanding flashed in her wide open eyes – well, finally – and she smiled almost cheerfully. “That is…” she bit her lip and paused, still watching him with that revelation. “… so adorably naïve,” she finished, with a shake of her head.

What!?!

“I can’t believe you really think they don’t… oh, sorry… if it’s easier for you to think that, to keep that illusion, by all means, be my guest – but don’t expect me to take part in that play. They are the grifters, it’s not a problem for them to act like they don’t care. I can’t. I’m easily scared, a very nervous person, I’m on the edge of a complete breakdown, and I won’t waste my strength pretending I’m not scared as shit. Besides, you were the one who told me that I don’t have a strength needed for crisis – I’ll stick to that and happily fear myself insane.”

He lowered his head and pinched the bridge of his nose. _Yep, definitely a thumping behind the eyes_. Counting to ten in a few different languages wouldn’t help this time.

“Hey…” her voice sounded soft now, quiet and uncertain, and he quickly raised his head. Her smile changed, too, into that dreaded unhappy one. “Don’t ask me to stop being scared for you. For any of you.” She hugged her shins and he had to stop himself from moving over there and pulling her as close to him as he could.

“Why?” he snapped instead.

“Because that’s how I feel. Acting like someone different, tomorrow, could cause trouble, not this, me being me.”

“Speaking of adorably naïve…” he growled and got up. He couldn’t sit anymore, he took a few steps by the table, feeling caged. _Leave the windows alone_.

“Takes one to know one,” she murmured, then added more clearly, with a hint of mocking, “just relax, okay? I won’t scream, I’ll fear in silence and dignity.”

“This is not a fucking joke!” he snapped. Her face fell and closed, and he almost, again, made that step to her, but managed to turn around and continue the restless pacing. In the opposite direction.

What the hell was he doing? He was snapping at the woman he wanted so badly – and wanted her to be happy so much that it physically hurt him seeing her miserable and scared. And he was trying to kill that care she felt for him, instead of cherishing it, as the only thing he could ever get from her in return. _Is there more contradicting stupid shit to do today_?

“If you’re going to kick something, don’t forget that the grenades are in that bag.” The softness of her voice was lost, thank god – and speaking of contradicting shit, all he wanted was to hear it again – and a new dryness crept into it. He turned around to look at her; she was still in the same position, resting her chin on her knees, and she watched him with disapproval in her eyes, frowning.

 _That_ was the thing he needed from her tomorrow. But no, he knew that disapproval was because of the care; she didn’t like his pacing and raging, because she knew he should’ve been resting instead. A dead end. He narrowed his eyes, quickly thinking, watching her like he would study a mark.

He had slammed her into a wall, and she _understood_. He was scaring her, and she saw through it. He growled at her, and she didn’t stop asking questions. He had told her about a multiple murder, and she shrugged it off. His list of possible methods was growing very thin.

His frustration hit the roof and he took a few more steps, up and down along the coffee table. He really missed that first day, when she was scared of them, reserved, and half ready to run off. Maybe if he insulted her hair, directly, openly this time? Nah, no, she wasn’t some vain, stupid chick – that wouldn’t change anything. This one tried to smuggle two machine guns into Lucille, he remembered, and his worry because of her future reactions tomorrow grew into panic. He needed to find something that would really insult her, hurt her and make her mad at him, to the point she would welcome his inevitable beat down with a satisfied grin. To the point that any danger for him tomorrow _wouldn’t_ result in her doing something reckless or dangerous for herself. And he had no idea what…

… _wait a minute_.

He slowly turned around and tilted his head, watching her.

Yep, that’d work. He was a fucking genius. He felt the smile returning to his face, an evil grin this time. That would solve everything. _A brilliant idea_.

Orion hissed and jumped from the sofa, heading for the duffel bags to hide.

“What?” She straightened herself and crossed her arms, leaning back into the sofa’s backrest. She watched him suspiciously, her eyes very careful. “You’re up to something, I can see that. Remembered one more way to _kill_ the poor Supernatural, or Castle, or C4 Facebook page?”

This would definitely kill _something_. Two seconds, two steps, and he knelt on the sofa in front of her, and she only had time to blink in confusion.

He planned the kiss to be rough, insulting and brutal – every normal woman would slap him and then hate him to eternity, offended and mad – but he made a mistake. Instead of yanking her on her feet, he caught her face with his hands, claiming her lips with something that was _meant_ to be more a hit than a kiss.

And it all went perfectly well, for one entire millisecond. Until he touched her lips with his. Until he felt that touch with every raw nerve in his body, like a current that vibrated through him stronger than electricity, cutting off his breath. Until the sheer force dissipated into a simple, gentle _touch_. Until…

Shit, maybe this wasn’t as brilliant an idea as he thought.

His fingertips tingled on her cheeks; her lips felt soft and warm, and for a moment he didn’t move, he closed his eyes. He just felt everything, felt _her_. She tasted like marzipan and oranges and _Florence._ Before he could think about what he was doing, he moved his lips over hers in a slow move – the caress was maddening – and it wasn’t even a kiss. It was…a presence. So close, finally.

One part of his brain was screaming warnings, but it was too late, he couldn’t turn this into something rough. He captured every sensation with a strange brightness – her warmth, the silk of her face, still touching his own, the sweet smell of her hair and perfume and skin, and the taste of her lips.

But he had just seconds. She was trapped in the sofa’s corner, and assaulted; no woman should ever be forced to go through that. He had to stop, now. It took both physical and mental effort to order himself to back away, to end that contact that overloaded all his senses except his eyesight. A few inches distance felt like a mile.

Her face was frozen under his palms. She didn’t move, didn’t breathe. He slowly set her free, and put both of his hands on the sofa backrest behind her; she was still trapped between his arms, but he needed that support now, badly.

He fought the storm that was raging through him and opened his eyes, to face her. Dreading it.

He expected a shocked, furious glare – he met two shaken, hazy eyes.

And what he saw deeper in her eyes sent another shiver through him, stronger than the first touch of her lips. He _knew_ that look. She took one shaky breath, and one small hand reached forward, to him, entangling her fingers in his shirt. She wasn’t pushing him away. She stared at his eyes with doubt. And with need.

 _Oh shit_. _Ohshitohshitohshit_.

That put this trouble on an entirely new level, going from a regular shit-happens directly to run-screaming-and-slam-your-head-in-a-wall. In one second. _Back away, now, before it’s too late_. Hope, the most awful feeling in the world, ran through his veins like fire. His brain tried to stop it, and shut down.

The thought that maybe she wanted him as much as he wanted her completely erased all reason from his mind.

 _Lie to her, you idiot_. _Stop this, now_. “Flo, this wasn’t-” he tried, but his voice broke, he couldn’t continue. He tried to set her free, removed his hands from the backrest, only to watch his own fingers tracing the line of her cheek instead – and he completely lost the end of the sentence, fascinated by the mere fact that he was _doing_ that. That she allowed it.

She leaned into his touch; his heart flipped. “Just… shut up,” she whispered, the sound barely audible. “Too late now.”

Her fingers moved over his left shoulder and she followed them with her eyes; her eyelashes, lowered, made long shadows on her cheeks. He traced them with his thumb, waiting, reading her. Her touch on his collarbone, and the skin of his neck took his breath away.

He waited, still, until she raised her eyes again, and a shadow of a helpless smile flew over her face.

In one second his hands were around her waist, yanking her up to her knees; they were both kneeling now. She made a small unintelligible gasp and his mind went wild. He pulled her as close as he could, clenching her in an embrace, barely stopping himself from crushing her.

He wanted – needed – to kiss every inch of her face, to feel, finally, that silk that glowed in the dim light; to explore the alabaster line of her neck that disappeared into her blouse, to taste her skin, and kiss her until she... then she wrapped her hands about his neck. Her hands went through his hair, pulling him even closer, with a need matching his, and he needed every ounce of self-control not to topple her on the sofa, to keep them both upright.

He could only think about how natural she felt in his arms – as if she was meant to complete the curves of his own body – and that thought left him breathless long before he really needed air. He didn’t _want_ to stop kissing her just to breathe.

She stopped.

Every single muscle in his body was strained, caught in a breathless balance between holding her tight, and keeping her safe. She melted into his arms and he managed to loosen his grasp into simply cradling her, catching his breath with effort.

“This wasn’t,” he whispered, “s’pposed to happen.”

She let out a short chuckle, but her face was buried in his chest and he couldn’t decipher her words.

“What?” 

She raised her face to him. Jesus, her eyes were dark and burning, her face flushed and her lips shining in the moving light from the screens. He stared at her, mesmerized, missing, again, the beginning of her sentence. “… adorably naïve, that’s-” He kissed her again, but this time slowly, letting the echo of her words go through them both, to dissipate into pure vibration. Exploring, this time. Learning. His hands trailed over her body, slowly, until he felt her tremble with every touch, every kiss. Everything was full of her; her warmth, her scent, her touch, and the thumping of her heart, synchronized with his.

He barely had the strength to restrain himself from ripping her blouse open, and she wasn’t helping; her hands found a way under his shirt, and slid around his waist. The stroke of her fingers on his bare skin brought unbearable heat; he hissed out breath, stopping himself from biting those full lips under his. But she froze and tensed in a second.

Her hands moved away. “Did I hurt you?” she breathed.

Hell yes, he _was_ hurting… but not that way. He pulled her back on his chest and ran his hands along her back, to her shoulder blades, to her hair. He'd wanted to trail his fingers through that golden mess for ages – but then he realized she was waiting for his answer, breathless, with huge eyes.

“Endorphins,” he whispered. “I wouldn’t feel a bullet right now.” She closed her eyes, relaxing again, and her hands returned around his waist, lightly, hesitantly. He kissed a dimple on her cheek, and continued with light kisses over her face.

He had to calm this storm down before it drove them both crazy; but he never knew it would take so much effort.

Every impulse in his body was still screaming to take her here and now – but it wasn’t the time for that. Not to mention he would probably pass out the moment he tried to get up from this sofa, when all three remaining molecules of blood left his brain. He was as capable of sex as much as he was capable of running a marathon. He bit back a smile, and cupped her face again, brushing his lips with hers in a light kiss.

Her heart beat slowed down.

“Don’t,” he said quietly.

“What?”

“Think.”

But he knew it was too late.

He kissed away a tear that ran down her face, and wiped away another, giving her time, waiting. When she finally opened her eyes to look at him, it was worse than he expected. He thought he would see regret. He was prepared for that. But he saw guilt, pain and _shame_ , whirling in a frantic spiral.

She couldn’t do this. She wanted to, he knew that, but she simply couldn’t. He inwardly cursed her honor, her loyalty, her love for the other man, then smacked himself mentally because of it. _That_ made her _her_ , she wouldn’t be Florence if she didn’t feel that way.

And why the hell did he feel loss instead of relief? He never had problems with flirting and kissing without any obligations – in this case, the fact she was married should’ve been the best thing possible.

“This wasn’t supposed to happen,” she said quietly.

“Yep, heard someone say that before.” He backed away a little, still holding her face, reluctant to let her go. He gave her space, leaning back and sitting on his heels.

It hurt watching this pain in her eyes – he knew what she felt, and how torn apart she was. He smiled, putting aside everything _he_ felt; she was the most important thing right now.

 _Give her something to do_. “Endorphins or not, I’ll need some help,” he whispered. “I need to sit down.”

She jumped on her feet – and his hands felt so damn empty. “What do I have to do?”

“Just be there and stop me if I fall.” He turned around, forced to use his right hand to lean on the backrest, much slower than he had to. Yet, he didn’t have to pretend, he was lightheaded now that his heartbeat had slowed too. He managed to lower his feet to the floor, but he didn’t get up, it would be too risky now. He just sat normally and rested his back against the backrest, taking one deep breath.

Jesus, how he would pay for this, later.

Her eyes were too quick, darting all around, as if trying to find a way to escape. He knew everything about running away from your own mind. It never worked.

 _Show her she did nothing wrong_.

“Come here,” he reached his hand out and she took it, hesitantly – but he smiled and pulled her down to sit near him. “It wasn’t fair to attack you that way… I had something different on my mind.” _Yep, brilliant idea, indeed_. Jesus, one day he would have to sit, take a sheet of paper and pen and write down every damn rationalization and excuse he made up during those days, to finally clear his mind and allow himself to feel what he ought to feel, without cheating. But not now. She was a tense, knotted mass of muscles and nerves. And she was silent.

He pulled her closer and cradled her on his chest, breathing through her hair. It relaxed only him; she felt like barbed wire. “You did nothing wrong, Flo,” he whispered. “This was just a natural reaction to stress and tension, and I didn’t help. Nothing to be sorry for.”

“Bullshit,” she said clearly. She wriggled her way through his hug and straightened herself, with both her hands gripping his upper arms. Her eyes, two fierce, hurting eyes pinned him there. “I want you. Shit, I think I wanted you from the moment you showed up in that corridor with the stupid elephant pajamas. And it’s getting worse. I know what are you trying to do, so just stop, it’s useless.”

Dear god, he had to close his eyes for a second, to stop himself from reaching for her again.

“This _is_ cheating of my husband,” her voice wavered. “Don’t diminish it, I know what I’ve done… what I feel. I’m not a stupid, seduced teen unable to, to…”

“Fuck, you’re honest,” he whispered, opening his eyes again, and that stopped her right before her words would end in tears.

“What’s wrong with being honest?”

“Nothing… but honest people are dangerous to me. I tend to trust them. Once I met one truly honest man – at least he was before we ruined him, and look where it led me… doing good and shit.”

“Nate? Honest?”

“Yep, he still is.” They had ruined Nate, and now they were ruining her – she lied, grifted, cheated and stole. Adding adultery to that list would be natural, a small voice in his head suggested, but he shook it off, as fast as he could.

And she was wrong. “And now, listen to me, you stupid.” He did reach for her this time, pulled her to sit on his left side so he could hold her close; she let him, silenced by his tone. Her eyes still flew all over, unable to focus on him, and he waved his hand in front of her face. “You did _not_ do anything wrong. And I will never let you think that again. This is not a marriage, this is not an... a love affair, this is something that happened, and it’s ours. I don’t know what this is… but it’s here, now. It’s something that we created – for us – who knows why. And how. Shit happens.” She blinked quickly a few times, almost smiled, but he stopped her. “Shut up. It’s not a _threat_ to anything, do you understand that? And it’s unique and precious. Probably because you’re so weird. And the situation is weird – it was inevitable, we were too close, for too long a time. We are… this is…” he trailed off, not wanting to say the word relationship, to not trigger her guilt again, but this _was_ it, dammit. “… something. The inability to define it doesn’t make it any less real. We’re stuck with this, we _have_ it. Try to look at this as something…”  _Priceless_ was the closest description, for him, but he shut up. It would be too much. Instead of that, he twitched a smile, and finished, “… user friendly.”

“A bubble,” she breathed.

“What?” he squinted, stopping his hand from reaching to his forehead. _Okay, move on_. “This changes nothing for you. That’s the important part. Whatever you feel for your husband, it’s not touched nor ruined by this.”

She yanked his shirt; a small, uncertain movement. “Eliot, I love him.”

He had enough mind left not to show her the twitch of helpless anger – she wasn’t putting him down, she was just explaining the depth of the shit she was in. And boy, that _was_ one hell of a problem. He took one deep breath – surprisingly, still nothing hurt – and went through few possible replies to that. All of them were jokes, unfortunately, and he dismissed them, though he could hide behind that joking. This wasn’t the time to take things lightly, taking her pain lightly.

“I know,” he said simply. “You can’t love two men at the same time – it should be him.” For who knew what reason, his answer brought tears to her eyes again; she crumpled into a small ball, in his arms again.

“Can we, can we, not mention this at all, just put it on hold – I need time. I can’t… I mean, I couldn’t, I won’t….”

“Shhhh,” he whispered softly, “You’re too annoying already – I don’t know how I would survive talking about this, over all the nonsense you blurt out all the time. You’re safe.”

He couldn’t decipher if the sound she made was a sob or a chuckle… probably both. He suppressed a sigh and just held her.

“But we will have to talk, at some point,” she said after some time, raising her head to look at him. How the hell couldn't that woman know what effect she had on him, so close, so damn sexy, with those eyes and... he mentally shook his head and concentrated.

“Yes, we do,” he agreed. Then he smiled at her, his best derisive smile. “If you want, we can talk about this after the PVA ceremony.”

“Oh.” Her eyes lit up again. “You promise?”

“No…I can’t…” he hesitated. But he saw no point in being honest with her now – she needed a lie. So he lied, for the first time in his life he promised something he didn’t know if he would be able to fulfill. “Yes, I promise. Wherever I am, whatever happens - I’ll come to you, and we’ll talk.”

“Good.”  And as if that solved everything, she made herself comfortable in his arms, and let out a small sigh of relief.

He didn’t know how long he would be allowed to hold her like this, to feel this…. completeness. Pain and happiness, mingled together, whirled in his mind, in his heart – he wondered what she was feeling right now.

 And as if answering his thoughts, she whispered: “I’m sitting in squashed marzipan.”

He bit out a breathless huff of laughter, and held her tighter, his lips on her forehead and hair.

Damn, he was pretty sure he loved her.

 

*

 

 

 


	55. Chapter 55

 

 

 

Chapter 55

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***

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Nate noticed how quickly Bonnano’s face lost its smile when he saw him and Sophie in the crowd in McRory’s bar. Patrick left a group of his friends and waved to one small empty table.

Nate knew that Bonnano didn’t call him for beer and a casual briefing; something was up.

“Knudsen is out,” Patrick said when he and Sophie sat and ordered their drinks.

“Arrested Friday morning, walking free Friday evening?” he asked. “Somebody pulled a bunch strings to make that happen.”

“It happened that his case could appear last on today's docket. By happy chance, of course,” Bonnano’s smile twitched. “Don Lazzara paid an insane amount of bail money, around three million dollars, and took his nephew home. His trial is in three weeks, I think. Until then, he walks. Thought you should know.”

“His men?”

“Not important enough, they have to wait. They're still locked up.”

Well, if anything, they knew that Dvorak Security was down twelve men.

“Do I need to know your next steps, or is it better to know nothing?” Bonnano continued.

“There won’t be any next steps… we’ll let justice to roll on its own. Our client is leaving tomorrow, or the day after, so we won’t be further involved.”

Bonnano looked at him, then at Sophie, then again at him.

“I see,” he said finally. “Or at least, I accept that version.”

“What version?” Hardison asked, joining them, lining up two phones and a tablet on the table.

“The version in which all of you just sit at home, doing nothing to solve your problems with the mafia, waiting for somebody else to deal with them – that version,” Bonnano smirked as he talked, and Hardison returned the same smile.

“Cool, that’s my favorite,” the hacker said lightly. “I’ve waited too long for that. In the meantime, I have a few more documents that will show you the suspicious activities at the mine, starting with all the hidden records – shipping an enormous amount of ‘spare parts’.”

“You _have_ those documents?” Bonnano put a slight accent on one word, and Nate smiled. His interaction with Hardison was mainly superficial, nothing more than one interrupted poker night a few weeks ago – Patrick knew very little about all the work Hardison did. What wasn’t such a bad thing at all, he added to himself when he thought better of it.

“Just a figure of speech.” Hardison typed on the tablet while they all watched him. “Since no evidence is helpful if your men didn’t do the finding thingy themselves, you will receive an anonymous note that will tell you how and where to find them on Knudsen’s computer, in about three… two… one… there.”

Bonnano’s phone pinged, and he checked the message. “This _will_ be useful,” he said after he studied the info for a while.

Sophie tapped him on his hand. “It’s very important that mine stays out of business,” she said, “Knudsen is facing heavy charges and he is going down when his trial starts, but the mine will be very dangerous if somebody else continues with the same practice.”

“And we don’t have to worry about that, either,” Hardison jumped in before Bonnano said anything. “I _have_ here the real results of the tests and analyses that prove he messed with the readings for a long time. Silica pollution is a real and present danger – no agency would allow the mine to stay in business.” Hardison sent another message, this time from the phone, then returned to the tablet again, sending more things. Nate watched him with a smile, noticing how Bonnano needed more time to open the messages than the hacker needed to find the info, compose it and send it. But Hardison’s smooth moves and quick fingers stopped abruptly in the middle of sending the last message he was preparing. The hacker glanced at the other phone, and froze.

“Erm, yes, this is the last,” Hardison continued almost instantly, finishing his typing. He kept his eyes in front of him, as if nothing happened, but the white of his eyes seemed to be twice as big as usual.

Nate hid a smile and leaned back in his chair, to have better view of the scene. For a second it seemed that Hardison would manage to hide his reaction – he might, if he was in some different company.

Hardison forgot he was sitting between the world’s greatest grifter, and a police detective – both of them took just one glance at his face, and reached for his phone at the same time. Bonnano gallantly let Sophie take the phone and look first.

Her eyebrows jumped up. “Oh,” she let a small sound, and a dazzling smile spread over her face.

Bonnano leaned over the table to look at the phone, and his eyes widened the same as Hardison’s did. Sophie turned the phone to Nate – for just one second – but long enough to see what was on the screen.

Oh boy. He rubbed his forehead and sipped his drink. “Hardison….” he said slowly. “You were spying on them with Parker2000?”

Hardison snatched the phone from Sophie’s hand and turned it off. “Spying is too harsh a word,” he said without any sign of remorse. “I kept an eye on them, just in case. If they started to fight again, I could go up and stop it, with some excuse.” Hardison looked at the two of them and frowned. “Why don’t you look surprised?”

“Because we aren’t.” Sophie still had that smile, and Nate studied her more thoroughly. Well, something had changed after their last conversation about ‘that’ when she had told him he was a moron because he said that a little romantic involvement could be good for Eliot.

“Well, am I the only one who didn’t see this coming?” Hardison said, still frowning. “Though, I noticed some strange reactions and I poked him a little, nothing serious... This escalated quickly.”

“Well, quickly isn’t a word I would use,” Sophie said. “I can’t believe you didn’t notice… it was quite glaring.”

“I can’t be the only one,” Hardison murmured and took the other phone, hitting a number. “Yo, Parker… have you noticed anything strange going on between Eliot and Fl- what do you mean, did they kiss already?” If it was possible, Hardison’s eyes grew bigger while he listened to the thief. “You told them they should? When?! Hell no.” He ended the call and put the phone in the middle of the table. Then he cleared his throat, while all three of them watched him. “Apparently,” he stated slowly, “she knew after the sniper incident.”

Bonnano, strangely silent, tapped his fingers on his bottle. He was frowning, too. It seemed that only Sophie obtained that smile, who knew why.

“I think we owe you some explanations,” Hardison said to Bonnano, noticing his grim mood too.

Bonnano raised one eyebrow. “You think?” he asked, shook his head with a sigh, and took out his phone. “Good evening, Betsy,” he said morosely.

Hardison almost choked. “You can’t-”

Patrick waved his hand to stop Hardison and continued speaking. “I think I owe you a hundred bucks. Yep, they did.”

Hardison’s expression was priceless. Nate hid his smirk.

Bonnano listened for a few seconds, with a grimace. “No, I’m a police officer, I can’t ask him _that_!” He sighed again, listening. “Okay, okay, I’ll ask him, it’s better than letting you talk to him. Bye.” He turned to Nate. “Betsy wants to know if you can – are you considering – damn… she _suggested_ you make Florence’s husband an offer he, well, can’t refuse.”

Nate gave a small nod, nothing more.

“I’m simply afraid to ask Cora to bring me something to drink,” Hardison murmured. “She might ask if they kissed already, and what are they waiting for.”

“There, there…” Sophie patted his hand, gently. “We all know you’re a little slow when it comes to relationship matters.”

“And what was _that_ supposed to mean?!” Hardison’s voice rose two octaves higher. “What are you trying to imply? That I’m… I’m not slow, I’m meticulous! No, don’t tell me – I’m done. Going home.” He collected both phones and the tablet, murmuring under his breath, followed by Sophie’s soft chuckle.

Bonnano got up too. “I’m going home so we can walk together awhile. Sophie, I asked one of my friends to give you a ride, he is ready to go when you are.”

“Will five minutes be okay?” she asked.

“Sure, I’ll tell him.”

They both left, Hardison still glaring at Sophie.

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***

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Nate noticed that her smile lost much of its cheerfulness now that the audience was gone. He had a very bad feeling that this wouldn’t be a pleasant five minutes. She wasn’t staying to enjoy his company a little longer.

“What changed?” he asked. “Last time we spoke about this, this… problem, I said it might be good for him. You said I was an idiot.”

“I didn’t quite change my mind,” she stated hesitantly. “I’m simply focusing more on the positive things now, because the negative ones are… now more negative than ever. You made a few good points. It’s because of her, and this job. It occupies him completely, the way none of us could. Before her he was constantly absent, present with us only with an effort.”

“That effort is visible now as well – sometimes even more than before.”

“No, the improvement is visible – when they started to watching the show, every fight scene, every shooting was throwing him out of balance, he was drifting away. Now, it happens only when he is too tired to keep the concentration up all the time. More an exception than a rule.” She spoke normally, yet her fingers fidgeted with her glass. Nate asked himself, not for the first time, how much of her posture was just an act for them, all of them, and how she really felt behind that mask she kept on her face. She noticed him watching her hand, and stopped. “Now, his attention is focused on her, on the danger, on the jobs,” she continued. “But he is still vulnerable and tortured, and when you fight that, when you fight those strong feelings, you’re bound to feel more than you allow yourself normally. And I don’t know how to help him.”

“With what?” he asked.

“With everything,” she almost smiled now. “But, whatever happens between him and Florence at the end, it gave him time. Gave him a buffer between his mind and all… all the death.”

It was just a moment of pause, choosing the words, but for him, it felt like he’d been given an entire hour to think. He slowly reached his hand out and took hers.

“And when will _you_ , Sophie Devereaux,” he asked gently, “be able to forgive him for what he has done?”

The question shook her much more than she let him see; her hand in his was immobile, like it was set in stone. No flinching, not even a blink – complete, utter control of every muscle, breath and thought.

“I have no idea what you are talking about.” The answer out came cold and precise.

“Of course you don’t,” he smiled. “So, should I follow Betsy’s orders and deal with dear Jeth-”

“Don’t joke about that.” Her voice sounded tired all of the sudden. She pulled her hand from his and leaned back in her chair, putting more distance between them. “Will you really take him with us to the PVA tomorrow night?”

“His decision, Sophie. Not mine. It was never mine.”

“Decision implies a choice. He has none, never did. You know that.”

Yes, he knew that. They all knew that.

“Is there any plan…Z… that could deal with everything without going there?” She tried again, and that showed him the depth of her fear more than anything else.

“There is, maybe, but it brings prolonged danger. He said he could function for the last two days, now just one – but no more than that. And I think you’re aware of how much strength is needed to get that done. Putting him through that twice would be much more dangerous. Because, no matter what shape he's in, he will get his job done tomorrow, we’ll be protected. Trust me.”

“I never doubted _that_ , Nate.” Impatience crept into her voice. It was fascinating watching her noticing it and putting her composure up in a blink of an eye. A calm smile spread over her face once again. He wondered why she thought and felt she had to do that in front of him. They were alone now, no audience near.

“As an actress, you are aware that the two of us, now, are doing a Greek chorus? I have no objections to commenting and explaining the dramatic action around the main protagonists”– he glanced up at the ceiling, to the apartment–“but it would be very useful, if I am, as a part of it, aware of the main plot. You see the problems I’m not aware of?”

“I thought you were the choreographer of this play, Nathan Ford,” she stated. “We all act as you direct. How’s your Siren’s Song going?”

“Tuning the last acts, thank you for asking.”

She smiled and got up. “I’ll use my exit line now, and leave you on the stage alone. My chariot is waiting.” She leaned in and kissed him. “Don’t forget one important thing… the Greek chorus is used mainly in tragedies.”

She didn’t glance up, she didn’t have to.

Just great. He poured another drink and decided to be patient. After all, thinking here, or in the apartment, was the same thing.

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***

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Rational thinking was good. Thoughts kept her mind occupied, keeping it away from feelings.

Florence could think about all the reasons for feeling this mixture of happiness and euphoria, she could count them all, one by one. She also could – and did – think about all the reasons that dragged her on the other side, to despair and defeat.

The problem was that those reasons were mostly the same. And not only did she think of them at the same time, she also felt them, all together.

She stubbornly continued to _think_.

Thinking was stopping her hand, for the hundredth time in five minutes, from moving across his chest; pulling him closer; reaching for his face; reaching for any other damn body part; unbuttoning his shirt and/or something else. And all of above. Repeatedly. For hours. And then again.

She dug her fingers into his shirt, gripped the fabric tight and forbade them to move.

He was still holding her tight. The heat emanating from him was almost unbearable, and his heartbeat under her face was too fast, but she couldn’t force herself to move away from him. The moment she did, that would be it. They wouldn’t talk about this, she asked for it, and she expected both of them to behave as usual, as if nothing happened. So, she wanted to prolong _this_ as long as she could – this way, still cradled in his arms, she felt as if they were still kissing.

Her fingers moved. She stopped them again.

He was right about one thing; this, this _something_ , was theirs, they made it, and damn right it was unique. She had no idea what it was. But she knew without a doubt that he was wrong when he said that this wasn’t a threat to anything. Maybe not on his part. She knew that _she_ was the danger here, danger to everything she had and loved. And surprisingly, that clear thought brought relief, brought her some of the control back. She already felt liberated by admitting she wanted him – finally, she could get rid of that, clear up everything with him.

She knew what she had done.

Euphoria and despair, joined in the storm still raging through her body. Most of all, she was happy, right here, now. Their bubble, that crazy construction that surrounded them, still existed. She – they – had one day. That should last for a lifetime.

She wasn’t sure if she should cry or laugh.

A soft ping stirred her and she was almost grateful for the interruption; her thoughts had become too random and disjointed, unable to keep the feelings at bay. But Eliot moved, and she realized he had to reach for his phone, left on the coffee table in front of them, to check the incoming message. She had to let him go.

Moving away from him felt like separation, although she just straightened up, sitting where she was.

“Nate asks do we need anything from the bar? He'll be here in five minutes.”

“No, nothing,” she said.

She watched him type the reply; his hair was still disheveled where her hands went through it, falling over his face when he lowered his head.

What kind of idiot thought that if she kissed him, she would get over it? Well, this idiot now knew how it felt – the mere memory brought heat into her cheeks. She scooted away, pretending she was occupied with taking the marzipan off of the sofa, just to forbid herself from kissing him again.

He was watching her, and she fell into his gaze when she looked at him again.

 _What now_ , a small, frightened voice in her head screamed. For one long, long moment, she couldn’t tell what he was thinking, what emotion flickered in his eyes, but then he smiled and she relaxed immediately.

“So, which episode have we been watching?” he said lightly.

She glanced at the screens, to some action amidst some planes. It took three seconds for her to remember which damn _show_ they were watching, and she suppressed a nervous chuckle. “Well, if Nate asks about the plot, I’m safe, but you’re in trouble,” she said.

“Typical,” he smiled again. She waited for the rest of it, but he said no more.

She searched his face; his eyes were restrained and cautious, but he couldn’t hide the softness deep, deep in them – she saw it and felt it. Yet, his intensity was completely muted, not in relaxation, but into almost absence, and something in her shifted uncomfortably. A gray weariness flashed under his smile. Even his voice was colorless, as if he concentrated his strength purely on producing a sound.

Just then she remembered all that they had done today, Nate’s crazy pace that left them all tired – what that meant to Eliot, she didn’t want even to imagine. And after all that…this. God, _she_ felt spent and empty. Falling from this adrenaline high, so intense, so fiery, left her shaky and weak– he must’ve been near collapsing.

She already knew how futile tries to stop him from doing anything were. He would continue the episodes on inertia, for hours, if she didn’t find a way to end it. It was too early in the evening for her to pretend she was too tired to watch it with him.

He rubbed his eyes, slowly, with an almost clumsy movement, and her heart ached.

“Will you do something for me?” she asked gently. He glanced up. No words, just a question in his eyes. “Nate will soon be here,” she went on. “And we have work to do. I would like to continue watching the episodes on your laptop, not on the screens here on the sofa.”

“Why?” he whispered.

She flinched when she heard the weariness in his voice, but put a smile on her face. “Is there any chance you will ever say just yes, instead of why?”

Thank god, that brought a little life in his eyes again, his smile seemed more present.

“I learn from the best. What’s the difference?”

“Feeling?” she said reluctantly, glancing at the sofa between them. She didn’t mind being here, but now that she had used that excuse to get him to the bed where he could really rest, she wanted to move from here, where everything only reminded her of his kisses, his arms around her. Damn, she felt her cheeks blushing again, and when she looked at him, it got even worse. As if they hadn't stopped at all.

He cleared his throat, breaking the eye contact first. “Yeah, you’re right,” he said slowly, his voice again only a whisper.

She got up the same moment he did, stopping his swaying by sneaking into his arms.

“I learn from the best, too.” Now she whispered too, so his weary voice wasn’t so glaringly obvious. “A stolen kiss is priceless.” She put a feather light kiss on his lips – and the thought that it might be the last one fell heavy on her heart – but she did what she wanted; he didn’t let her go, he kept her near. She was able to steady his steps and give support in case he stumbled, masked by that embrace. 

Nate arrived only one minute later, finding them deeply concentrated on the episode. Eliot in the bed, she in the chair beside him, their usual positions. _Move along, nothing to see here_.

She chirped a few casual questions, having no idea what Nate’s answers were. Her mind and all her scared, troubled thoughts, were focused only on Eliot. She had thought that the heat he radiated was unbearable when they sat on the sofa; now, when they walked, it _burned_ her.

His eyes never left the laptop; he stared at the episode with one slow blink every thirty seconds – she counted. She wasn’t sure if he knew what he was watching at all.

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***

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“Did anything important happen in your Facebook groups while we were away today?”

Damn, that question sounded complicated. Eliot slowly raised his eyes to Nate who stood by the bed; that move almost hurt, they had been focused only downwards for too long, on the laptop in his lap. “Votin’,” he said. “Some normal bitchin’. Talkin’. More votin’.” He thought for a moment, noticing how slurred he sounded, so he added more clearly, “Why? Do you want them to do something tomorrow?”

“Only if you think of something for them.”

He concentrated. Without any visible result. The problem with Nate being cryptic was that he always did it when he wasn’t able to pass more than two possible meanings out of ten. That couldn’t be a coincidence.  Frustration stirred the comfortable fog that was wrapping him, a fog he carefully and with an effort managed to maintain for the last three episodes he watched. A man could count on Nate to destroy, with only one sentence, his attempts not to think about anything.

“Anything else you need?” he asked politely, stopping the episode.

Florence got up from her chair, flexing her shoulders. She went to the kitchen and he kept his eyes on Nate, not glancing after her. He didn’t need to look at her to see that her steps were slow and tired. It was late.

“George looks satisfied with the new pot,” Nate said.

Florence had brought George after they moved from the sofa, and put him under his light by the bed. He didn’t scoot from her while being carried, not even when she whispered to him something too quiet for him to hear. But George refused to look at him this entire time, face-palming for hours. Eliot had to admit that during the first episode, he was mainly occupied with figuring out with _what_ on _what_ George was exactly face-palming.

“You know nothing about plants, Nate Ford,” he said. “And stop trying to figure him out. You never will.”

“That’s kinda the point.” Nate smiled, then looked all over the room before he turned his eyes on him again. “I’m going upstairs to catch some sleep. You should rest, too.”

Finally. “Of course, go on.” He started the episode again. Nate didn’t move, as if waiting for something, but he erased him from his mind and concentrated only on the tilting screen until Nate turned around and went upstairs, waving a quiet _goodnight_ to Florence.

Florence was much harder to get rid of. He tried not to be upset because of her silence, but it disturbed him even when he was mostly out of the apartment, focusing only on the episode. She spoke only about the current episode, giving him background and explaining things, nothing more. Occasional glances, the only thing he allowed himself, told him that she was okay – nothing in her posture indicated that she was uncomfortable with him. She was probably occupied with non-thinking too.

Yet, it took almost an hour after Nate had left for her to say she couldn’t keep her eyes open anymore.

They were on the fifth episode, and his eyes burned from within.

He held the laptop tighter in his hands; it was helping to hide the shivers. But he couldn’t just ignore her the way he did with Nate, so he raised his eyes to her. She was blurry, almost doubled, and he couldn’t tell if she was smiling or not. He blinked once, slowly, and it helped to focus – yes, she smiled.

“Remember to turn that off before you pass out,” she said lightly.

He desperately searched for anything to say, but words were hard to catch when his mind was filled only with the fog that he created to stop it from working. He nodded.

No questions, no asking for an explanation – she smiled once more and left him.

Orion first took her place in the chair, and when she returned from the bathroom, he sneaked closer under his left arm, curling up to sleep.

He finished the sixth episode with his headset on, waiting for her to fall asleep.

It was easier now, when he didn’t have to keep the fever at bay, when he didn’t have to hide it and pretend in front of her. In front of anybody. He could hide in the half darkness and silence of his mind, in the fog and shadows.

No sounds came from the sofa, no movements, yet he knew she was wide awake. He turned off the seventh episode at the middle and went on Facebook to check on the trouble he'd started. After that he opened the commentaries on the discs to continue where he had left off the night before, and just then the silence from the sofa stopped being filled with thoughts.

As if confirming his conclusions, Orion got up and went to her – the cat sensed that now was the time to sleep with his human.

If his luck held, in the next hour or two he might erase his mind completely. Only passing out would now help him live through the night relatively peacefully.

The day had been terrible. He was so utterly spent that he was too drained to sleep. Physical exhaustion was only a part of the problem – he dreaded what this night might bring. He was shaken and upset on many levels, his mind whirling aimlessly, out of control. Almost as if kissing her opened the door for every other emotion, letting it past past his walls and skipping his control points. A flood, a damn flood – and he was drowning.

The commentaries were not helping. They only kept his concentration away from more important things to control. He decided to turn the laptop off, but before that he scrolled through them to see if there was any Buck in them. He kept Hardison’s words in mind that they might need him tomorrow. He found him in a recorded panel, where most of the crew was answering questions. There would be enough time to watch it tomorrow, or if he woke up during the night – now it seemed too long to go through all that.

He had it on for just one second too long.

Ezra had just finished answering a question from the audience when the camera rolled to the left side of the table. To Florence McCoy, to show her reaction to his answer.

Her hair was longer then, he noticed that first. But then she laughed.

Her laughter was sweeter than magic bells – he quickly stopped the recording, not wanting to hear it.

That was even worse. The image froze on her face, capturing that smile – a smile he had never seen on her face before. From the first day here, her face was shadowed with worry and fear, smiles were tinged with it, dull and colorless. This one – this dazzling, brilliant smile showed the real Florence McCoy, a happy, beautiful woman. Her eyes were crinkled and lit from inside, sparkling with the joy and energy of life. With happiness.

He stared at her, breathless.

God, she had to go away as soon as possible, even if he had to put her on that plane himself. She had to return to herself, her real self, she had to smile like _this_ again. And that was something she wouldn’t be able to achieve with them, with him.

He was a black hole. She was a beam of sunshine.

He had to chase her away before they – he – ruined all her light and happiness, sucked it into his half world of violence and death.

He didn’t know how long he stared at her smile, before he played the recording again, before he heard her laughter once more. But now he knew how she looked when she was happy, really happy.

Now he knew the sound of sunshine.

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*


	56. Chapter 56

 

Chapter 56

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***

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The ghost of her laughter followed him during the night, filling every corridor of his mind with the elusive sound, impossible to follow and find. Endless, dark corridors, filled with death, darkness and dying men.

Worst of all, he was aware of everything. It didn’t make it any less real. One small, awake part of him was captured in his mind, and forced to observe everything he had done, everything he was doing, and to know everything he would do. Helpless, in cold terror.

And there was nothing he could do to act, to stop himself, to change the course. Not even when he took a gun and started killing through the corridors. Faces weren’t important; they were just a nameless bunch that advanced on him, a river of enemies that he simply stopped, one by one, one bullet at a time.

That wasn’t something that one could just stop and erase. The feeling of the gun in his hand, that grip, recoil, the gunpowder cloud around him, the too familiar blasts, everything sucked him in, and no order could stop it. Efficacy. He was so damn good at being bad.

And his captured mind, reduced to bear witness, could only watch the scene playing over and over, frozen in dread. In fear and panic. Because he knew who was approaching him behind all the faceless enemies, and he couldn’t restrain that madman with a gun. No control, no means to do anything but scream without a sound.

He watched himself, unable to stop the killing spree, killing all four of them, one by one.

The third time the scene played from the beginning, he was begging for a blackout, for oblivion, for death, anything that could stop him from watching himself killing the only people he cared about; the only people he had.

The only moment he could enter the mind of the killer with the gun, was at the end, when he watched their lifeless bodies on the floor, when he had realized what he had done, and it was the cruelest mockery his mind prepared for him. It made him do it, and then forced him to face it when it was too late. Letting him _feel_ it.

It didn’t even let him die. Every time, at the end, he would turn the gun to himself, and the nightmare was cut off, and he was returned at the beginning of the corridor to go through it all over and over again, again knowing what he would do – stronger and harder with every replay – until his mind begged for breakdown, for death, just to stop it.

He cried for them – and he laughed, at the same time, gripping the gun tighter.

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***

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Orion’s usual night concert stirred Florence, and she turned over, waiting for him to calm down. He would normally just walk all over the room, murmuring something to himself, when he wasn't meowing loudly with who knew what messages, orders or suggestions to her, but not this time. He climbed on the sofa, quietly hissing, and tried to sneak under the blanket. She let him in, waited until he curled up, and then peeked at him to see why he was so upset. His eyes reflected the warm yellow light from the kitchen, huge and scared. He let out one quiet growl.

Okay, that wasn’t normal. She was completely awake in a second. She knew all the surveillance systems were working, and the singing from McRory’s was still in full swing, though muffled by thick walls, yet she knew she wouldn’t be able to sleep again until she checked if everything was all right.

She left Orion tucked under the blanket and quietly got up. Eliot’s laptop was shut down, but the surveillance one was on the table by the bed so he could monitor it during the night.

She sneaked closer to peek at it. In the first second she thought he heard her and he was getting up. She took one more step closer, and just then she saw that he wasn’t sitting; his back was arched as if he was frozen in some seizure, his hands clenching the sheets.

She bit back a scream and flew to him.

It seemed his hand was waiting for her, he moved so fast; she literally ran into his grasp. His fingers gripped her throat and turned her over and down, slamming her into the bed.

Dear god, now she knew why they were so cautious when waking him up. She couldn’t speak, breathe, move… no air to make even a low keen. She fought to unclench his fingers, in vain, and darkness crept into the corners of her vision – but he pulled her up again in front of him, like a weightless rag doll. His eyes were still empty and cold – he observed her for a moment, then stretched out his arm and threw her to the bottom of the bed. She wasn’t a threat anymore, she realized while trying to gather herself up, to gather all her limbs back into human shape.

She crawled off the bed, crumpling in a shaky ball on the floor. He didn’t recognize her at all, not even when he released her. _Run away from this madness_ , a small voice in her head screamed… but no matter how strong and controlled his grasp was, his hand was shaking, his eyes glassy. He was sick and delusional, fever raging through him. He couldn’t be left alone… nor did she want to leave him now.

She got up and hurried to the kitchen, glancing at him just once; he fell back again, covering his eyes with one hand as if erasing the things he was watching.

She returned with ice packs and rags, still breathless. And fucking scared. No strength or courage for crisis, right - this was the bravest thing she had ever done, going closer to him again, within his reach, to the man who fought who knew what in his troubled mind, who couldn’t know it was her…

She cautiously went closer, watching him. This wasn’t a simple nightmare that would pass if she woke him up.  His face was soaked in sweat, his hair was damp too. This fever might’ve lasted for hours.  Even in the dim light she saw tremors running through him.

His eyes flickered open when she came closer, and she met the same empty stare.

“No, not again,” she whispered. “It’s only me, and I have ice and rags, and I’m gonna use them, so you better be still or I will, I will… do something drastic. Probably completely stupid, and we don’t want that. I’m tired of doing stupid things, so don’t fucking move.” No reaction, or trace of recognition.  She took one more step, and his eyes slowly moved from her, staring sightlessly in front of him. She wasn’t considered a threat, or he would attack again, right? “You know, you have really unique ideas of giving a girl a good time. What do you do on the second date?” she continued her whisper. She couldn’t tell if he understood anything, but it seemed he was aware of her voice. Wherever he was, she might reach him, and pull him back.

“This is still me, the same person you’re still _not_ attacking.” She calmed her voice, erased the treacherous trembling from it, replacing it with all the gentleness she could find deep inside.  She carefully touched his hand with a cold rag and he twitched. “Yes, it’s cold, and it will help, we have to lower that fever down. Just trust me, okay?” She wrapped the ice packs – direct touch would be too much – and placed one near his shoulder, just to test his reaction. And none came, except he closed his eyes, slipping away from her again.

She controlled her fear and ran back to the kitchen for a bowl full of cold water. She soaked a rag into it, using his stillness to wipe his face and neck, placing cold rags all over him. His breathing was quick and shallow, and the shaking didn’t subside, but she continued to whisper, and cool him down without pausing. Maybe he wasn’t unconscious, maybe she just calmed him down.

“And one day I will tell you how much strength is needed to chirp this way around you, and not freak out. You really underestimate my powers. I’m starting to think of it as highly offensive behavior.”  She swallowed the tears, keeping her voice on the edge of a smile. “But, if you wake up now, I won’t call you on your shit. Just wake up.”

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***

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This time, everything was slower and more blurred, and the corridor tilted. Ten more times, and he might exhaust his own nightmare down, one of the rare clear thoughts flashed through his mind. Yet, this time, another shadow followed the team in front of his aim. He was too deranged to feel any deeper dread; he just dully acknowledged one more death. After all, what difference did it make? Just one more bullet.

The conscious part of him writhed in agony, unable to leave, unable to shut down, watching himself placing the bullet right between her eyes. No sunshine here, in this corridor. She flew back and he staggered, for one long, breathless moment whole again.

She rolled over the floor and _sat_. “…and the funniest thing is, this is so damn cliché, this calming the fever down,” she stated sorrowfully. “Yes, I know, I have a thing about clichés, you don’t have to tell me that. I know that. But I would never, ever, write this scene for my episode. At least, not this way.”

She pulled her knees up and hugged her shins. He shot her again.

She shook her head. “The only thing worse than this would be wrapping up the hero’s wounds by the fireplace. Or with candles. I would write ‘fever scene’ only if I could make it unique. Maybe by adding an alien invasion – orange aliens singing Amazing Grace. Yep, it would work.”

He emptied the entire magazine into her. One good thing about nightmares was the infinite ammunition, he thought. Then he realized _he_ thought, again. The corridor was now tinged in yellow light, he could see her better.

She got up and came closer, and he continued to shoot, to press the trigger, but no sound of bullets exploded around them anymore.

“I wonder if I tickle you, would you react?”

What the hell?

“Or I could sing you Amazing Grace myself,” her voice was now quieter, she frowned, seemingly deep in thought. “I have a nice voice, many people have told me that…”

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***

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“… but they always have that strange, slightly aghast look in their eyes as they say it, and I’m not sure-” she stopped when his eyelids moved. He opened his eyes – a slow, tired move – but he looked at her, not at s _omeone_. “Hi there,” she smiled at him.

“Orange… aliens?” he whispered through clattering teeth, so quietly she had to lean closer to hear him.

“You flinched when I was whining about penguins,” she quickly said. “The same way you flinch and roll your eyes when I speak nonsense, so I knew you heard something. So I spoke utter bullshit just to make you flinch again. I dearly hope you won’t remember any of it in the morning. And if you remember, just pretend you don’t, okay? Especially the part with... never mind.”

She got up and flew to the sofa, snatching her blanket. Orion stirred, shocked.

His eyes were closed again when she returned. “No, stay awake. I made you a tea and you have to drink it. You need fluids. Wake up.”

“What have I done?” This question was more clear.

“When you noticed I was here?” she asked. “You tried to snuggle, I had to slap you away.”

Yep, _that_ woke him up. He blinked and stared at her, with glazed eyes, and she used that to put the blanket over him. “Try to sit, please.” She piled all the pillows upright so he could rest on them in a semi-sitting position. She slowed her moves, slowed her thoughts, tried to calm down and not show him she was balancing on the edge of hysterical crying. She could live with him intentionally scaring her – but scaring her like _this_ … it was unacceptable.

“Still too hot.”  She felt his face and forehead. “But much less than the 105 half an hour ago,” she waved the thermometer in front of his face. She wanted to jump on her feet and ran to the kitchen, but she managed to hoist herself up in the laziest way possible. She returned with a huge cup of tea, and watched him just holding it.

If she radiated enough calm, maybe it would dull that sharp, stabbing pain in his eyes. A casual, ‘bad dream?’ question, somehow, didn’t seem appropriate right now.

She was aware of his struggle to clear a haze around him; his eyes were still blurred and disoriented. He clutched the cup as if it was an anchor to reality. She should continue bombarding him with words, she knew that, but she couldn’t. She just curled up by his left side, facing him and only being close.

He sipped the tea and grimaced.

“You need that sugar now. No whining allowed.” Well, maybe annoying him would get him together faster, she thought when he frowned.

“I’m fine now,” his exhausted, unused voice was so convincing that she almost snapped at him, but she managed to turn the words into a quiet grumbling sound.

“You will be, now,” she said. “I don’t think the fever will return in full strength anymore. You should be able to sleep.” He flinched again; she was right, she knew it – who knew what horrors he had escaped by waking up. He said nothing, though, struggling through his tea with a pained grimace that was the most perfect form of silent whining she had ever seen.

Why the hell he was the most adorable when he was disoriented? She just watched him with a gentle smile, but the warmth she felt froze over when she realized she had been silent for too long. He still held the cup, but he was slipping away again, his eyes going into emptiness faster than he could fight it. She had to do something, very quickly.

“So, we are both awake now. What now? Sex?” she said with a grin.

He almost choked on the tea.

“Not funny,” he said with something close to a smile. “Don’t promise what you can’t deliver.” For a second she was glad his eyes were present again when he glared at her, but they flickered with a raw hurt before he could hide it.

Oh. She went very still.

“You’re right. I’m sorry,” she said quietly, silence setting deep inside her.

“No problem,” he whispered. “You didn’t blurt out any nonsense for almost two minutes, I was kinda worried.”

She stared at him, unable to find any words to pass this moment. That look in his eyes hit her like a real blow in the gut. _Move, do something_. She took the cup from him and put it aside and tucked strands of his hair behind his ear. He winced when she touched a bruise under his eye. Perfect, it helped her find her words again.

“Speaking of clichés, here’s another one,” she quickly said. “In movies, men are able to endure three bullets and just shake it off, continuing to fight as if nothing happened, but later, if a woman is involved, they will wince and twitch at every touch.”

He blinked. “Okay, I’ll restart counting.”

“It’s not nonsense!”

“It’s not a cliché, it’s normal…” his voice wavered a little. “- no, I won’t tell you, figure it out yourself.”

“There’s nothing to figure out,” she stated firmly to finish it. She could bicker about it endlessly if necessary, but it would just keep him awake. No matter how much she wanted to prolong this time, to just be near him, she had to back away and give him time to rest. He could barely keep his eyes open, now that the fever left him drained, but he fought to stay awake. “You _have_ to sleep,” she whispered. “You know that.”

“Don’t stay too close,” he whispered. “Go away now.”

“No. Nev-” her breath froze in her lungs. She almost said _never_. She _meant_ it. “… never mind,” she finished quickly. “I’ll sit here in the chair and watch something on the screens to lull myself to sleep, if that won’t bother you.”

He glanced at the chair, and she pulled it two steps away, as if she wanted to stretch her legs out on the working table. “The sooner you sleep, the sooner I’ll go to the sofa,” she said. “No negotiating.”

She wasn’t looking at him anymore, busy with searching through numerous channels, until she found a calm, peaceful documentary about ant colonies. She kept the volume low, but enough for both of them to hear it. If her talking helped him escape from the nightmare, maybe this would work too.

She didn’t see the screens. Long after his breathing became deeper, she just sat there, wrapped in her silence.

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***

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A slight touch on her shoulder stirred her from the troubled thoughts. Nate was leaning over her.

“Go to bed now,” he whispered. “You need a sleep too.”

She had sneaked back closer when she was sure Eliot fell asleep. Keeping an eye on his temperature was essential, so she had carefully tried to sit on the bed. Not careful enough. She just sighed when he woke up, trying to find a way to predict his moves, if not avoid them… but this time he just smiled. He shook his head and pulled her closer to lie beside him.

“No rail climbing, okay?” he whispered.

She said nothing – though she could, she wasn’t clumsy, the railings were slippery – listening to his breathing and all the ways warrior ants scouted the terrain.

That was the position Nate found her in, tucked under Eliot’s arm, and she wasn’t sure what to think or do, except to run to the bathroom to hide. She waited until Nate went to the kitchen, and pulled herself, inch by slow inch, from Eliot’s hug.

Nate probably expected her to go to the sofa, but she followed him in the kitchen.

No, she was wrong. He was preparing two cups of coffee.

She sat by the kitchen counter, on a high stool, and watched him working.

It was still night. Why he was up so early? _Probably checking on Eliot. Or regular insomnia. Or he simply set an alarm clock_. She rubbed her eyes and sighed. She was so damn tired. She put her elbows on the counter and leaned her head on her hand like a pillow, studying the surface in front of her nose.

A cup landed one inch from her nose, and she raised her eyes to meet his.

“How high was the fever?” he asked quietly.

“105 F at one point, but now is okay.” She turned around and glanced back. She couldn’t see Eliot behind the shelf that guarded the hospital bed, but she heard no movement. When she looked at him again, Nate was studying her.

“I don’t want to talk about _that_ ,” she said.

“Do I look like someone who would like to talk about _that_?” He smiled, stirring his cup. “If you beg, maybe. With effort.”

Exactly. She grinned, relieved.

“You have a long, exhausting day before you,” he went on. “We won’t sit idly and just wait for the PVA to begin. When do we have to be there, by the way?”

“Some time in the afternoon, I’ll check exactly. The main ceremony will start later, but all guests have to come earlier. Press, TV stations, all will be there and it all takes time. Not to mention the ceremonial cocktail party before and during the main event.”

“Scared?”

She restrained herself from glancing back. “To the point of dullness,” she said dryly.

He sipped his coffee, watching her over the cup. “Do you know the definition of  a patron/client relationship? A mutually obligatory arrangement between an individual who has authority, social status, wealth, or some other personal resource and another person who benefits from his or her support or influence. That’s the closest thing to this that we do. And the key word is ‘benefit’.”

“Why do you feel the need to tell me you won’t screw me over? Why do you think you have to?” she asked slowly, gathering all her concentration. Talking with Nate was… difficult.

“It’s not our part that’s important, I know where we stand. It’s yours.” He let out a small smile. “What’s the most important part of this arrangement for you, pixie? Trust?”

“Respect,” she said without thinking. “Respect comes before trust. I can’t trust people I don’t respect. Respect _means_ trust, for me.” She blinked, almost confused. “And knowledge, to add to respect,” she went on.

“So, to trust us, you have to know us and respect us? Do you?”

She thought, then nodded. “Yes. Yes, I do.”

“And why are you so scared then?”

He couldn’t be serious. As if he didn’t know how many things could go wrong today.

“I don’t know what to do with my hair,” she said sweetly. She hoped that the beginning of this conversation meant that Nate would explain something, finally, and ease her fears – but all he did was confuse her more.

He smiled again – and he wasn’t a person who would smile that much – and bent down, disappearing behind the counter. When he appeared again, he had Orion in his hands. “This is the only way to stop him leaving fur on my trousers,” he said putting him on the counter between them. Orion sniffed their coffees, and sat, licking his paw.

At one point she thought he was the one whom she should fear the most; now, watching him with growing unease, she knew she was right.

“I’m not much of a cat person,” he said watching him thoughtfully. “But he is a lovable creature. Even Parker likes him, and that is accomplishment.”

“Maybe he has a soft spot for weirdoes,” she murmured lowly. “God knows he is living with one.”

“Or maybe it’s respect.” He smiled. Again. “A very fragile thing, that respect.”

He was either giving her some crucial clues to today’s PVA action, or his brain needed coffee to form clear sentences.

“There are times when things overwhelm us,” he continued when she said nothing. “When we have two minds about everything, while fear and trust race each other. It’s difficult to see things clearly then – we have to listen to our gut. Only then you can know what’s right. Tonight…” he paused, thinking. “Tonight, in all that mess, the line between trust and fear might be even more blurred.”

“If you’re trying to warn me that you’re gonna pull some creepy shit and I’ll freak out, you don’t have to – I knew who is coming with me to the ceremony. I saw your hazmat suits. I know what you did to Don Lazzara.”

“Maybe I should’ve paid more attention to your fears – because they are unfounded.  We are going to the PVA to keep you safe and as far from Don Lazzara as we can – remember his recording, he knows you’ll be there, and that you are the reason Knudsen went down. And we can do that only by keeping a low profile. Our presence, if everything goes as planned, will be completely unnoticed.”

She stared at him. “First, I have to trust my gut; second, we won’t do anything. You just said two completely opposite things, Nate.”

He raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Did I?”

He was creeping her out.

She pushed the cup away and got up. “I’m going to try a few more hours of sleep. Good night.”

“Good night, Florence.”

She went to the bed to check Eliot; he was sleeping, and there was no tension in his face. At least one clear thing, something she could trust.  All she wanted right now was to sneak back into his arms, but she knew she couldn’t… it would wake him up sooner or later. She returned to the sofa.

“Florence…” Nate’s quiet call stopped her and she turned to him.

He raised his cup in salute, motioning to the soft greyness that came through the shut blinds. It was dawn. “Welcome to Saturday,” he smiled.

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*

 

 

 


	57. Chapter 57

Chapter 57

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***

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“Wake up. I think you’d like to watch this.” Nate’s words were followed by a loud male voice coming from the screens.

Eliot was awake; Nate had gradually increased the volume before he spoke, to give him time to get himself together. It wasn’t working like it should’ve been.

Something soft and warm was breathing very close to his face. There weren’t any golden curls when he opened his eyes – thank god, that would be awkward – but there was white fur. Orion occupied the middle of his pillow and entire center of the bed – he was pushed to the outmost right part. The cat looked at him, stretched lazily, and continued to sleep.

He heard nothing except the voices from the screens, and he glanced around the room. Nobody there but Nate in the kitchen. A sudden need to check if Florence was as beautiful as she had been last night pretty much surprised him, and just when he started to ask himself where the hell she could be, she came out of the bathroom.

Yep, she was. Though, she had something sticky and sickly-looking glued to her face, a toothbrush in her mouth, swollen eyes and indescribable hair. He felt a grin on his face and tried to stop it.

“Pfood m’rning,” she said. He was pretty sure she smiled; grayish paste on her face cracked on her left cheek. She removed the toothbrush and went on. “You can take this bathroom, I’m going up.”

“You both have seven minutes,” Nate said.

“What?! That’s not enough even for... ungh.” She turned around and hurried upstairs.

He sighed and lifted himself into a sitting position, tucking Orion in the blanket. It would be wise to stop smiling, he warned himself, but Nate had his back turned to them, digging in the fridge, ever since Eliot had looked at him the first time.

What would happen in seven minutes? He checked the screens, but they just showed some boring financial report with charts.

“Everything okay?” he asked, just in case.

“Yep. Get up.”

He turned around, slowly, cursing under his breath. He felt like he'd been smashed into pulp and molded again over a human being shape constructed from thick wire. Every move was stiff, and, for a change, _everything_ hurt. Turning his back to all of them, covering himself with a blanket and a pillow, and refusing to get up wouldn’t work… but he was so damn tempted to do exactly that.

 _Bathroom. Pills. Cold water. Move_.

His knees were rubbery, and he was unstable. A finger poke would push him off balance right now. Well, knowing how restful the night had been, he was doing great. In the last ten days he had gotten used to recovering from his sleep; he would just continue with that. He needed only an hour or two to shake off all the effects of a fever.

He counted the seconds without noticing it until he came to the fourth minute; counting also helped put himself on auto pilot speed. _Act now, whine later_.

He finished with the bathroom in five minutes and thirty seconds, and went out to face a cup of coffee waiting on the table in front of the sofa. And Nate. Along with a laptop with their comms' feed on, opened and working. Nate was tuning out the background channels, as far as Eliot could tell in one quick glance.

“Peaceful night?” Nate asked still pressing buttons. “You slept well?”

One day he would just slap him. He returned Nate's smirk with a grim scowl.

He hadn’t been sleeping when Nate climbed down and dragged Florence to the kitchen, and he knew Nate knew exactly how peaceful his night had been.

“Welcome to Saturday?” he said, letting him know he could stop with that crap. “What the hell was that supposed to mean?”

Nate left the laptop, took his coffee, and leaned back in the sofa.

“Nothing special. I just composed a bunch of random, ominous-sounding sentences, without any concrete meaning, followed by significant pauses and a dark voice.” Nate stirred his coffee, a smirk still on his face. “It’s good to know somebody still has the power to scare her.”

He expected _some_ reaction to finding Florence cradled in his arms, so the sting missed completely. He glanced to the stairs to check if she was coming. “You think she needs more scaring today?”

“If she expects the worse, she'll act accordingly, prepared. She’s cool headed in crisis, after initially freaking out, but I’m afraid that the PVA will put her on a test.” Nate paused for a moment. “It'll put us all to it.”

“Continuing with your Siren’s Song?”

“I have to. It’s not a priority right now - dealing with Don Lazzara and keeping her alive is the first thing. It’s now or never… but why not try something that could give her that Season?”

“Risking her trust and respect?”

Nate didn’t react to that. He kept his face empty, yet the pause that preceded his words was unusually long. “Her trust and respect are the least of the things we’ll have to worry about.”

There wasn't much use in asking what he was doing; Eliot knew Nate wouldn’t tell him. He trusted him… but too much was at stake now.

Nate checked his watch. Seven minutes had passed, and he took the remote, fidgeting with it for a few more seconds. His frown was very close to worry, hidden behind the same empty face. Eliot watched his inward struggle, the way he tried to force himself to broach another subject, and that inner squirming was as amusing as painful to watch.

“Nope,” Eliot answered to spare him the trouble. “Nothing important, nothing to worry about.”

“If you say so.” Nate pointed the remote and pressed the button, screens changed. “Remember how you had to keep an eye on Buck in the fifth season? I thought you'd be needed in this, but I changed my mind – I'll only use the Joker tonight.”

Florence arrived right on time to see the beginning of a live car chase, with more than ten police cars and two helicopters on the tail of a dark van.

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***

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“… The identity of a victim isn’t confirmed yet,” ran the excited voice of a studio reporter over the footage from a helicopter, showing them the speeding black van again. Squad cars were tailing it very closely, yet the driver of the van managed to increase the distance, maneuvering through the rush hour traffic with exceptional luck. Or with skills developed from being a getaway driver since age ten, Eliot thought watching the chase. Or with skills learned from a taxi driver in Istanbul. He went through his hair, still wet from the shower, with both hands.

“I should’ve - " he started, but Nate waved the remote.

“No. They only needed speed, not protection. You would’ve slowed them down.”

“What’s going on?” Florence’s whisper sounded stiff; he restrained himself from looking at her. “What victim?”

“Relax.” Nate let a smile in his voice. “Everything is fine… it’s just one more chance to put The Magnificent Seven on all the news networks, right before the PVA.”

“But the victim…”

“… We are now going back to InterContinental Hotel, where this brassy attack took place… no, we actually have an update from our channel helicopter, stay tuned.” The reporter's image was replaced with the recording from high above the streets, and a male voice jumped in. “We've been asked to clear out from the dangerous zone – police helicopters, though slower than ours, need a clear line of sight. We shall continue on this course for three more minutes, but we’ll try to give you as close an image as we can. Bob, take us as low as possible.”

The reporter jumped in with a question. “Do the police have any information about an eventual target destination, or are the attackers just trying to escape?”

“Nothing confirmed for now. The black van was reported stolen during the night, and the police are unable to identify the perpetuators. No contact with them yet. Wait, they're changing course - they're leaving the avenue… Bob, get us down.”

The image on the screens changed once more, showing them the van that had taken a sharp left, dragging the police behind.

Nate lowered the volume a little. “Okay, we’re almost there,” he said. “One more minute, get ready. People are gathered.” He listened to something through his earbud, and Eliot waved to draw his attention, pointing to the laptop. Nate leaned to the table and pressed two buttons, putting the comms feed through the speakers.

Now they could see those people Nate was talking about – there was a large crowd in front of a Wal-Mart in the corner of the helicopter's camera feed… and the van was heading right at them through the half-empty parking lot.

Nobody in the van said a single word, though they could hear the engine roaring, and police sirens following it.

“Uhm, Nate, this…” Florence broke off when the van took a sharp turn left right before it would have slammed into the crowd, hitting a fire hydrant. “… this is all arranged?” she finished when water gushed out in a high spurt, covering them all. “Oh, I see… it hides them from the helicopter cameras – it can’t be a coincidence. Very well directed. But - "

The van was stopped now, and the crowd was in a mess, screaming and running all around. “Zoom in on the van!! Zoom in on the van!!” The helicopter was now flying dangerously low, but they could see everything clearly.

Eliot held his breath, listening to the closing sirens, trying to judge the distance and time they had for a retreat. Yet, when the back door of the van opened with a sudden jerk, they saw no familiar faces; a black-clad figure, face covered by a mask, flew out of the back of the van from a punch in the face and landed on the ground, back first.

“Dear god,” Florence whispered when she recognized the man that appeared in the door, the man that knocked his attacker down. “That’s Buck… how did you - what have you - "

“Shhh…” Nate turned down the volume of the screens and the reporter’s frantic babbling even more. “He’s okay, unharmed. Watch this.”

One more black-clad figure showed behind Buck’s legs – it literally crawled in panicked movements and fell to the ground; the third one dashed beside him, avoiding his hit, with both hands in the air, in the universal ‘don’t hit me’ pose. That one grabbed the first fallen attacker and pulled him to his feet – the crawling one stood up and joined them. All three of them kept their faces turned to Buck, as if too scared to turn their backs on him. They retreated, quickly, through the crowd that dispersed, giving them space. They disappeared through the Wal–Mart door right as the first squad cars appeared with screeching tires.

A screaming wave of people burst out of the Wal-Mart, running away from the danger. Seconds crawled by – people pouring out, the police closing in, screams, yells, helicopters roaring, reporters babbling; the helicopter camera moved, adding a nauseating feeling of utter chaos.

They saw Hardison among the people at the door, in sweatpants and a flowery shirt, and Sophie limping beside him, clutching at his hand for support. Heavily armored police officers rushed them away together with some other retreating people, clearing the perimeter. A few of them got to Buck and the van, taking him away. He was already smiling at the river of reporters that had arrived after the squad cars.

“Sophie, faking the limp, or...?” Nate asked.

“Sort of,” she hissed – they could all hear how pissed off she was. “Damn idiot bit me! He just rolled over like a dog and fetched my leg, and _bit_ me!”

“I told you he can’t fight,” Florence whispered, still stunned. Eliot quickly glanced at her; her eyes were wide open. She looked like she still didn’t believe this.

“That’s why we chose him,” Nate said. “Parker?”

“I’m trying!” The thief didn’t sound any calmer than Sophie. “Hardison made me leave one grenade in the van. The prettiest one!” They could see her now, stomping in the crowd, dragging a child by her hand, followed by one grateful mother with two more kids. Her hair was in two ponytails, and she wore pink, radiating innocence.

“Next time _you_ get to fly out of the van and land on your back.” Hardison’s murmur sounded sulky; his steps were stiff and careful. “Okay guys, clear out, meet you in Lucille in two minutes. We didn’t have enough time to hide our clothes very well. The police'll find them and start stopping people from leaving. You guys in the apartment, pray that Betsy didn’t watch _this_.”

“Right,” Eliot sighed. “Keep thinking that. She’s working the night shift, so she's at home right now. She'll-”

The ping of an incoming message sounded ominous in the short silence. Eliot checked his phone and squinted.

“A message from Betsy?” Florence whispered. “What does it say?”

“Not reading it.”

“Why?”

“It’s long. And all in caps lock.”

“Oh.”

Nate turned off the speakerphone, but he left his earbud in, still listening to the unhappy trio.

Buck’s voice from the screen drew their attention; he was speaking to reporters while paramedics checked him. “Terrorists for sure – one of them said that The Magnificent Seven is imperialistic trash that praises outlaws. He said he'd blow us up and kill me, pointed a gun at me.” He drew a hand through his hair, letting the camera flashes reflect off his lighter strands, his face set in a derisive smile. “Well, this outlaw couldn’t let that happen, right, girls?” A collective _"Awww!"_ complete with sighs went through reporters.

Florence covered her eyes with her hand.

“And we got ourselves a hero,” Nate said, pointing to the studio reporter that was watching the handsome actor with something akin to adoration in her eyes. “This shit will be on all over the news for an entire day, and half of the PVA coverage will be filled with him giving statements. I hope Channel Six remembers to - " He paused until he found Channel Six on the remote. “Yep, they are. They're showing Buck’s odyssey along with footage from #SeaOfCrimson, connecting the actions in people’s minds.”

“It will be impossible to work with him after this.” Florence was smiling now; though her worry hadn’t subsided entirely, she looked a little more relieved.

“You can tell him, later,” Eliot suggested, but she shook her head.

“No,” she smiled gently now. “Let him have it.”

Nate took his coffee back and put the remote on the table, leaving Channel Six on. “So, with the #SeaOfCrimson, we had a feeling of collectiveness, many people fighting together for something they love,” he said thoughtfully. “With yesterday’s Parker suicide, we had drama and tragedy. Today, we made a hero. I think there’s just one more thing to add to that line, to press all the buttons of America's average viewer… a romance.”

Eliot managed not to flinch, keeping an uninterested look on his face. But Florence wasn’t that good. She jumped to her feet as if kicked.

“I have to go to my apartment and choose shoes for the evening. And new sneakers, definitely new sneakers. The ones I have are too slippery on wet surfaces, and rain - "

“Not now, Florence,” Eliot said calmly. Just for a moment, he regretted that. He would go with her, of course - there wasn’t any chance she would go alone - and that meant he could steal a few moments alone with her again, without anybody close… No, definitely not now. Maybe not at all. It wasn’t the wisest idea right now. Or ever again, he added, watching her twisted smile, a pale shadow of that unhindered, brilliant smile that he'd seen last night in that recording.

 _She will never smile at you like that, so just fucking stop_. He knew it. It was better to stop thinking about it now rather than later… after all, they had more important things on their shoulders.

And speaking of more important things… the unusual rise in regular street noise drew his attention. He got up, slowly, relaxed; Nate and Florence didn’t notice the change yet.

“Nate, Sophie put my new clothes for the PVA in the duffel bags with the rest of them?” he asked lightly. It was a combination of his light tone and unusual question that stirred Nate from thinking, and he looked at him.

“Oh, clothes,” Florence murmured. “My dress. I need Sophie. I have to… will you excuse me for a minute? Unless you need me here - " She hurried back to the bathroom, not waiting for their answer.

Eliot turned around and went to the duffel bags; Nate’s eyes were on his back. When the bathroom door closed, he took a look through the few slits in the boards that covered their broken windows.

The usually half-empty street in front of McRory’s entrance had a few more cars. Three vans with different TV logos were parked on the opposite side… two more were coming, cruising slowly, trying to find a good spot to park. Reporters from the already parked vans were out already, and it was their quarrel that he had heard… they already had cameras out.

“The reporters are gathering in the street,” he said when he turned around. “I’ll check the back door to see if it’s clear.”

“It’s too early for them to arrive for her statement… this shit with Buck was in real time.”

“I know.” He didn’t like it. And, according to Nate’s grim features, he didn’t like it either.

Nate sighed and put Lucille on speaker again.

“Hardison, we have reporters gathering around Florence’s apartment,” Nate said. “You’ll have to sneak through the back side unnoticed. You can’t be seen or even recorded as being here after the cameras caught you near Buck.”

“Sorry, but that would be the least of our problems, Nate,” Hardison’s voice came after a short pause, strangely quiet. For the moment, the only sound that they heard was his quick typing, covering the steady roar of an engine. And the quiet opening of the bathroom door. Florence looked at them with a question in her eyes.

“What do you mean?” Nate asked evenly.

“I couldn’t monitor everything while we played kidnapper with that idiot, but now I've checked…” The hacker took one deep, deep breath and slowly exhaled. “Something else happened. The reporters ain’t there because of Buck. They're there because of her… according to the article that I just found, and it was impossible to miss it, it’s fucking _everywhere_ …. We're busted. Are we sure Don Lazzara don’t have somebody on our Channel Six ally list? Because our actions connected with Season Six Job are posted publicly… exposed and analyzed… and apparently, the press thinks Florence is the Mastermind behind it.”

 _Hell no_. Eliot watched the draining of the color from Florence's face. She froze, still holding the knob. Then she looked at him, desperation creeping into her eyes. Without a word, she returned to the bathroom, and they both heard her locking the door.

He regained his voice. “What now?”

“Continue as if nothing happened.” Nate sighed. “I’ll find out what happened…who happened… but it isn’t important now. Nothing changes.”

Eliot twitched at those words. “It changes for her! She’ll be - "

“I can assure you, Eliot,” Nate stated firmly, “that our client will be fine in the end. Now go and do something useful now, alright?”

Something useful, right. Our _client_ , right. _Fuck you Nate_. He marched to his bed, turning his laptop on.

He needed something to kill. Facebook would do.

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*

 

 

 

 

 


	58. Chapter 58

Chapter 58

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***

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Nate actually looked worried, Eliot noticed after a while. He sat leaning back in his chair, his fingers steepled, seemingly lost in thinking. Hardison was the one frantically pacing back and forth, in front of the screens.

“There’s no way to delete them all, that would only raise suspicious attention, and give them more fuel against her,” the hacker pointed to the pictures he pulled up on the screens – the Zakim Bridge with many stopped cars, police, and Parker’s tiny figure seconds before her jump. Behind her, a van was circled in red, half hidden behind two other cars. The other picture showed that van, Lucille, much closer – side door opened two inches, and Florence peeking through the slit. Her hair was covered with a beanie, but part of her face and one eye were recognizable. The third picture showed her face from some conference, erasing any doubt, showing the same features, the same eye.

Eliot tried to remember some of the faces from that crowd… but they were all taking pictures, even Nate clicked with his phone to melt with the crowd. That was a dead end. Yet, it wasn’t some bystander who accidentally snapped a photo of Florence and recognized her… because the article was very thorough.

 _#SeaOfCrimson wasn’t just a fan-based action – the author of M7 wasn’t just by chance hidden nearby when her fan committed suicide. Was it a suicide at all, or an arranged show? Who put a priceless diamond in a balloon and why? Who is behind the perfidious pressure on the C4 network_ … the questions went on and on, mostly shooting blindly, but dangerously near the truth. Truth wasn’t important, really, because the readers would swallow any conspiracy theory with joy, without thinking, and this shit had enough triggers to make them delirious.

“It’s not your fault, Hardison.” Sophie’s voice was soft, but the hacker’s steps just grew faster. Parker was silently chewing the end of one of her ponytails.

“If I reacted faster, if only-”

The bathroom door opened, Florence came out. Her red-rimmed eyes glinted too brightly. They all looked at her, and for one long, long moment, Leverage Consulting and Associates couldn’t come up with anything to say. What to say to a client accused of their doings, who was facing painful public humiliation, who had to go out in a couple of hours and face the entire world that was now buzzing?

Florence McCoy was ruined. Maybe for good.

Eliot had no idea how the others had felt, but he was barely suppressing the worst kind of rage. A helpless one.

She looked at them, one by one, stopping mid-step. “What?” she asked, wearily. “Something happened?”

Hardison snorted. “Something more than _this_? No, I think this is enough.”

“Oh.” She frowned, glancing at the screens. “For a moment you got me worried.” She sighed, sitting in a chair. “I’m okay now, you may continue with whatever you were doing. I’ll deal with that sleazy bastard as soon as we finish.”

Eliot felt his eyebrows jumping up. He expected desperation, and found rage. But hers wasn’t helpless, and he hid a grin. The others still waited silently.

“What?!” she repeated impatiently. “I told you – or I just thought about telling you, not sure – how you don’t know how cruel my world is, differently cruel than yours. This isn’t a surprise, people. It’s the _press_. This is an act of war, but nothing I haven’t seen before, and I know how to deal with it. You just continue with your part, I’ll handle this. But… Nate, can you find that bastard for me?”

Nate slowly turned his head to her, observing her. “I’ll see what I can do,” he said quietly, almost absentminded.

“Good. I’ll take his bowels out, pull them down, and tie them in a knot around his… uhm,” she murmured. She took out her phone and put it on her knees, staring at it as if it would jump up and bite her… it vibrated constantly, low, without pause.

“Whatcha gonna do?” Hardison asked, fascinated.

She poked the phone. “They are waiting for my response,” she said. “I have to make some sort of… a statement.”

“Deny all the accusations? Go with _no comment_? Blink your eyelashes, all cute and innocent?”

She thought, staring at the phone. “No,” she whispered finally. “When the going gets tough, the tough get… creative.” She raised her eyes to the hacker and smiled. “Do we know how to make banners?”

“Do _we_ know? Hell yes.”

Hardison’s grin, Eliot noticed with growing amusement, had an evil note in it.

.

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***

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Put the two geeks together, add two laptops, and what do you get as a result? Obnoxious, smug chuckles.

Sophie and Parker trailed to the dining table after Florence and Hardison, but they were shooed away without mercy.

Eliot sulked on the sofa for a few minutes; he had no intention of going over there to see what they were doing. He wasn’t _curious_. Yet, he needed more coffee, and he had to pass the table to go into the kitchen… besides, leaving them unsupervised might not be a clever idea. Hardison looked like he was about to spin out of control, and Florence, judging by her grins, compensated for her rage with very suspicious smirking.

“No, no, go away,” Hardison waved a hand at him. “We need one more minute, no peeking!”

Even Florence turned her screen away from him, but she at least gave him an apologizing smile.

“Fine,” he grumbled, snatching a cup of coffee. He went to the opposite side of the room, to check the reporters gathering around the building. The rain was getting stronger, it had chased them back into their vans and into McRory’s, but many of them waited with their umbrellas, patiently. They could’ve used them as a shield from the mobsters days ago, instead of police. After all the police officers crawled away after the all-night party, the reporters would be useful in case Don Lazzara tried a surprise attack, too impatient to wait for the PVA.

Speaking of the PVA… he glanced at Nate, who was still sitting in the chair, looking at the articles on the screens. It seemed that lightening the atmosphere hadn’t affected him. His posture was strangely slumped, as if the burdens he carried were finally pressing with all their weight. Well, it was about time.

He went back to him, and waited until Nate acknowledged his presence with one slow move of his eyes.

“Is there something more in this?” he motioned to the screen. “More than some opportunist reporter using the info we gave them? More trouble?”

“No,” the answer came quick and short.

“So what’s up?”

“Nothing new.” Nate even smiled this time; a slow, tired smile. “Just a dreadful moment that comes in every job, when you realize that things are starting, gaining speed, and that you’re past the point of going back.” He lowered his eyes to his hands and kept them there. Eliot knew that feeling, unfortunately. He knew that look even better. But the hands never gave any answer back.

Nate knew what waited for them, he wasn’t a fool. Eliot wasn’t a fool either, he knew all the odds, he knew how many people he could fight, and for how long. There was a pretty weak chance he would get out of this day alive, and he accepted that. Most of all, he knew himself and his own restrictions.

If Nate, now, started to change his plans, to give him more chance and better odds - _to fucking protect him_ \- it would only result in getting them all killed. They had to finish this. He couldn’t allow himself to get killed _before_ they were all safe, before Don Lazzara was done for good.

He could go on knowing he would die for _that_. But he couldn’t go on knowing he would die and leave them still in danger. Nate’s wavering and hesitation might mean that dreadful difference.

“This time, the responsibility isn’t yours,” he started carefully, choosing his words. “I trust your plans and you trust them, too. Whatever… else… happens, wasn’t your doing. Only mine.”

Nate held his eyes for a moment. “Absolution in advance?” A wry smile crossed his lips.

“There’s no sin, Nate. Not on your part. Just an endless string of circumstances that all led to this, shaping our actions tonight. Bad luck, you could call it. But I’d prefer to call it… extreme measures for extreme times.”

Now it was his turn to look at his hands. Nate saw blood stains that hadn't yet come to pass; he looked at years and years of layers. The last coating in vivid, bright red, still hadn’t dried. And it wouldn’t. Not until this night passed – until he paid it off.

He could only hope he would pay for it with his life only.

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***

.

Directing her anger into a quick revenge worked perfectly, and brainstorming with Hardison – a slightly frightening experience – settled her down even more. Any other time she would probably be devastated, finding herself in this sort of scandal, but now? After all the shit she’d been through? It really felt like a minor annoyance.

They chose Twitter as the battlefield. Her message would get lost on any other social media, and they needed it to spread quickly and elicit many reactions.

She wasn’t quite sure why Hardison chased all of them away; it wasn’t like they were disarming a nuclear warhead – they were only preparing a tweet. Hardison was always open, friendly and natural with her, but now his glances were quick and troubled. Maybe this was the hacker’s equivalent of following her to the bathroom, knocking and asking what she’d been doing.

“I’m not pretending to be fine,” she said when he looked at her once more, and stopped the words he was about to spill out. “I’m not happy, but this is just a nuisance. Expected from the press.”

“Yes, sure, all right,” he said quickly, but somehow she knew she missed the target – something else troubled him.

He typed, regarding her with one more inquiring glance.

“I like you,” he said suddenly. “In case you were wondering. We all do. Keep that in mind when deciding about... everything. Important stuff.”

“Okaaay…”

He looked like he was about to add something, but glanced around them and shut his mouth. Sudden suspicion froze her smile; Hardison couldn’t know anything about Eliot… could he? No, their interaction was the same as yesterday, before, before… the sofa incident. They were all in McRory’s at the time, and though Hardison left the last, he couldn’t simply eavesdrop, nor would he… oh. He would, of course he would, they all would, damn nosy bunch, they had to know everything about everything… fucking control freaks, every one of them…

Unease crept into Hardison’s eyes while he watched her face, and she gritted her teeth into a tight smile. No, she _wouldn’t_ waste her time thinking about how he could know. She deleted, for the third time, a misspelled word.

When she looked at him again, Parker was standing behind his shoulder, unnoticed, looking at his laptop. Nosy _ghosts_. The thief smiled at her, took one step to the side, and disappeared again. Florence sighed.

“We’re done,” Hardison proclaimed a minute later. “Unless you want to add something more?”

“Nah, that’ll do. It isn’t _that_ important.”

Hardison got up with his laptop, and she turned around to see the screens and the rest of them.

“Pay attention, people.” He removed the article from the screens. “This is going to make a great disturbance in the Force, but diametrically opposite; it ain’t gonna be as if _millions of voices suddenly cried out_ _in terror and were suddenly silenced_ , nope, there will be millions, I surely hope so, but terror is the last thing we wanna cause with-”

“Hardison,” Eliot cut off his speech. “Geek spiral.”

“Damn right it’s geek spiral, I just started… okay, okay, stop complaining, here it is,” Hardison put her tweet on the screens.

 _Whoever photoshopped those pics, is amateur. #EvilMasterminds don’t peer from vans, it’s offensive. He should’ve tried this_ :

“Ta-daaa!” Hardison played the short gif from the link in the tweet, Moriarty and Sherlock on the rooftop, from Reichebach Falls, just with her face instead of Moriarty’s.

“And what’s that supposed to mean?” Eliot sounded unimpressed.

Hardison produced a sound between growl and squeak. “How could you not know…? You have no idea…” He glanced at her and shrugged. “They don’t get it.”

“I see,” she smiled. “Never mind, they aren’t important. Check _the important_ people.”

Hardison quickly typed. “Hah, here we go… _our_ people got it. One favorite… one retweet… two favorites, two retweets… one hundred favorites, two hundred favorites, it’s spreading… four hundred retweets… damn, they’re fast… okay, Twitter just exploded. This _is_ a disturbance in the Force, the best kind… and we haven’t even cheated. Yet.” He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye and his grin became broader. “About cheating… voting for the PVA is officially closed. Do you want to know if you should start preparing your speech or not?”

She huffed with indignation. “Hardison, I have nothing to prepare… that race was hopeless from the beginning. Let it go, will ya? I will only, maybe, ask you what you have done with it… Eliot used the third question option, but I haven’t.”

“Any time.” His grin remained the same, though. “I’ll go and tweet this through a couple of accounts, and attack Google+, you monitor your account for a while, okay?”

“Okay,” she nodded.

The rest of the team was still watching her tweet and gif, but Eliot got up.

“I’ll go check my messages; I’m waiting for the pitchfork admin’s reply,” he said to Nate. Nate just nodded.

Florence studied them both, noticing the strange tension in their eyes, their posture. Their smiles were empty and false, just an act for her, and the rest of the team. If she wasn’t here, she would think they had some bad news. But then she sighed, realizing that they didn’t need _more_ bad news. They had a good dose of it already. This entire day was bad news.

She followed Eliot with her eyes; he went to the bed and his laptop, but he stopped by the shelf, leaning on it. He watched George, she saw it, completely lost in thinking. She wanted to go to him more than anything; to sneak into his arms and hug him, to erase that tension that scared her. And she couldn’t.

Her eyes dropped to her phone and laptop. All that seemed so futile, so not important now. Then she glanced across the room. Hardison kept himself busy. Nate looked right in front of him, somewhere between the screens and the bathroom door. Parked paced in front the two boarded up windows, like a caged animal. Sophie was watching her, and she caught her eyes. Maybe she should tell her… but Sophie probably knew already. She couldn’t hide anything from her, the grifter was reading her despair and fear without any problem.

The hours until PVA would drive them all crazy.

She lowered her eyes again, feeling a cold lump of dread settling in her stomach.

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***

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Hardison and Parker went to Lucille and to observe the reporters, and Eliot monitored all the cameras until they came back, carrying big bags from the van.

“Jackets, suits, both FBI and Dvorak Security,” Hardison counted while piling all the clothes on the empty side of the working table. “We’ll sort them out later. I also have overalls and jackets for the maintenance service; an orange and red combination, really awful looking, but it will be useful for entering and all the backstage doings. Also, a few coveralls, dark blue, for technicians, one size fits all. You can wear anything you want under that, except maybe fancy dresses. So, do you want good or bad news first?” He grinned at their collective stares, and continued. “Good news: the press passes are standard, and I have enough ready, I only have to make one for Florence, just in case. Dvorak Security doesn’t have badges, just dark green uniforms. Secret Service agents will be mingled in with the guests, and FBI also, so your badges will do. The PVA security and personnel have passes with different levels of clearance – one of them, a Level A, gave an interview early in the morning. I scanned his pass and made an identical one for us. It won’t go through real scanner check, but visual will be okay. When we get there, Parker will snatch the real one so I’ll have enough time to make bulletproof ones for each of you, if needed.”

Nate said nothing, again, Eliot noticed. Hardison noticed it too, because his grin faded a little, and he continued with almost no pause. “Now, the bad news. The weather report isn’t good. The Charles River in Boston burst its banks early this morning, flooding nearby streets and properties. People in the lower parts of the town where the flood defenses were damaged by a tidal surge are being warned to prepare for further flooding. The situation will escalate during the day, the highest tidal wave is expected some time during the night. Shit is not nearly done, heavy rain continues. Inspector Mark Garth, from the Boston police, said it was thought that Boston had seen more flooding than the other coastal areas because the rivers acts like a funnel where pressure builds up as the waterway gets narrower along the stream. Severe damage to the flood defenses was identified. He also warned people not to risk their lives by going into flooded areas.” Hardison put a few pictures on the screens, flooded streets and emergency services at work, lashed by heavy showers and strong wind. “The keywords – for us – are funnel and pressure. That ain’t good, Nate.”

Florence raised her hand, and Eliot couldn’t see if Nate would say something at all. “Why is it bad, except for our hair, and traffic problems?” she asked.

Hardison glanced at Nate before replying. “Well, tides go up… and then go down… but mostly up. Rivers that flow to the sea are already flooding because of the constant rain for days, and when that mass collides with the even bigger mass of water going _up_ , that water will make one huge bang. I know water can’t make an actual _bang_ , but picture bursting. Bursting through sewers, tunnels, underground, the pressure building up and up–”

“Enough, Hardison,” Nate finally spoke, stopping Hardison’s babbling. He looked at Florence and smiled. “The most important part is, of course, trouble with our hair. And probably a ruined Red Carpet entrance. We shall think of something, don’t worry.”

She chewed on her lower lip. “Right,” she said slowly. “Sure.”

Her eyes swiveled to him, in worried question. He tried to return a reassuring smile, but he could endure her eyes only two seconds. Sitting in the bed suddenly became unbearable; he got up, taking the laptop with him, and joined them by the coffee table.

“My coffee is still here,” he said to no one in particular. He actually had three cups all over the room by now.

Parker resumed her pacing. Up and down, up and down.

Nate was watching her.

Hardison was watching Florence, frowning slightly. She didn’t see it, her eyes still on him, looking almost lost. He knew every question and suspicion whirling in her head right now – but this time, Nate was right. It was better for her not to know anything, no matter how hard it was for him to see her so lost.

He felt Sophie’s eyes steady on both of them, and grabbed his coffee again. Nate followed him in a heartbeat, straightening his shoulders and tilting his head, a weak attempt to look as if nothing special was happening.

“Nate?” Florence’s voice was small and quiet. “I was thinking. There _is_ something strange about this attack.”

“What sort of strange?”

“I’m not a star. I’m just a writer and producer, interviews with me go on back pages, and just because I’m young and good looking. But the press, in general, usually likes me. I’m not important enough to be followed around, but I’m weird enough to give them something funny from time to time. In their collective mind, I’m _useful –_ when they don’t have anything new on bigger targets.” She glanced to her phone for a second, then returned her eyes to Nate. “You don’t destroy a ‘useful person’. When you destroy a star, you know you’ll have months of headlines, and even after that, that star will provide you with more material. When destroying ‘useful’, you have one day of headlines, and you’ve lost that source for good, they don’t recover. This wasn’t some rogue reporter. This was someone else – with connections, but not in business.”

“Good observation. Yes, I’ll keep that in mind.” Nate looked at the rest of them. “Anything else?”

Eliot pointed to his laptop. “I talked with the pitchfork admin; she’s trying to gather all the Boston fans to come to the PVA,” he said to Nate. “She thinks she’ll have about one hundred fans. Not much, but people can’t afford to come from distant cities… and we don’t have time to get ‘em here or send ‘em money.”

“That will make Brewer very happy,” Hardison snorted. “He was gloating over the balloon action in Boston, I won’t forget that. Ever. I was hoping we'd make him swallow his own words.”

Eliot now pointed at the screens, at the frozen image of a firefighter in water up to his knees, whipped with rivers of almost horizontal rain. “And it will get worse as the day goes by,” he said. “I would be surprised if my admin herself manages to come at all.”

Sophie shifted uncomfortably. “So, asking Betsy to come over wouldn’t be possible?” she asked quietly.

He almost growled at her, but stopped his snapping at the last moment. “Why?”

She avoided his eyes. “Nothing special, I just thought… no, forget it. It’s not important, I’ll take care of it myself.”

They all looked at her; he remembered that idiot in the van bit her leg. Sophie wouldn’t even think about calling Betsy if it wasn’t something that really bothered her. “Let me see that,” he got up.

She scooted away. “No!” she darted him an accusing glare.

“C’mon, nothing I haven’t seen before,” he grinned, repeating her exact words she used when she helped him with pulling the glass from his hands. She faltered and almost smiled, visibly hesitating.

“Okay… but not here,” she finally nodded, frowning at the others.

He gave her a hand and pulled her on her feet. “The bathroom, go.”

She sighed and followed him.

He waited until she caught up with him, with small, reluctant steps, and then reached for the cupboards to take out antiseptic and bandages.

And he stopped the move halfway through. The hair on the back of his neck stood up.

Fuck. _Damn idiot_.

The sound of bathroom door closing behind him echoed like a screechy gate of a dungeon – or at least it felt like that, and the ominous thump that divided him from the rest of the team. _From help_.

He fell for it, as always, a naïve fool… one day he would learn not to underestimate her. But now it was too late.

He slowly turned around and faced Sophie Devereaux, with keen, sharp eyes, with her arms crossed on her chest. Between him and the door.

“So, Eliot Spencer,” her voice was sweet and deadly just like it was in the darkness of the slaughterhouse. “Will you fight for her?”

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	59. Chapter 59

Chapter 59

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***

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Eliot and Sophie had been in the bathroom for more than five minutes when Hardison put Brewer on the screens.

“I could wait until they come back, but we’ll simply replay it later,” the hacker said. “Brewer avoided the official statement about Parker’s suicide yesterday, and today’s Buck’s heroism pushed that back, unfortunately.”

Florence just huffed when she saw Brewer’s expression – she knew that hard smile, she’d seen it many times before. “He is cornered and being pushed, and this is his stubborn, pissed off face,” she said, turning to Nate who was sipping his coffee in the chair on the right. “He isn’t happy.”

“I hope he isn’t.” Nate said only that before Brewer started talking.

Laura Flynn-Mullins had just asked him about the cancellation again, cutting off his praise of Buck’s adventure, and his unhappy face took on a new edge. “I would very much like you to stop asking me that question,” he said, visibly nervous. “I see what’s happening, and I really admire the devotion of the fans, but we are a business, and we base our decisions on numbers and analysis, not on whims and smoke screens. Besides, you’ve seen yourself how small a number of fans showed up with their silly balloons. I told them already, and I’ll repeat it again – they have to show a lot more than ten fans if they want to be noticed and considered. And we are all aware that isn’t going to happen. The People Voice Awards starts in only few hours, their last chance – I will announce the cancellation at the ceremony, it’s almost official by now. It would be much better for entire crew of The Magnificent Seven: The Next Generation, if their fans show their support by buying DVDs and watching reruns. It will also show some dignity. Thank you.”

“Some dignity,” Hardison hissed. “Small numbers. Silly balloons. We have the entire world on its back legs! Nate, what will you…”

“Let it be, Hardison.” Nate’s voice had a warning tone in it, Florence heard it clearly. The hacked shut his mouth. “Parker, about those blueprints… we’ll need a few more escape routes for tonight, we’ll work on it when you-”

Eliot coming out of bathroom stopped his words.

“She’s okay,” he quickly said to Nate. “Nothing to worry about.” He smiled and took something from the table, returning to the bathroom immediately.

He seemed almost upset, she noticed in those short few seconds. But he wouldn’t lie to Nate about Sophie’s state. No, he didn’t, his smile was normal – just his eyes were tense and strained.

Maybe he had done something useful with his pitchfork admin. She remembered he talked about gathering the Boston fans for the PVA. Yet she also remembered his numbers were small, less than one hundred people. Brewer would only glance with despise and mock them again.

If all of Boston – almost two million people - couldn’t provide more than one hundred fans, maybe her show wasn’t worth saving at all.

She sighed, not paying attention to Nate and Parker, who were discussing the static of back buildings and lowest levels of their target – she saw no point in it. They would leave the ceremony the same way they entered; they were guests there, in fancy clothes, they would just mingle in the crowd.

Eliot’s laptop was on the small table in front of them, shut down; he closed it before going in the bathroom with Sophie.

“I'll check if there’s something new with pitchfork admin,” she said to Nate; he nodded.

Yes, she was right – he had only closed it, didn’t shut it down, and the screen flashed when she opened it. It took just one look for her to see that she might need Hardison’s help to figure out where to find that information.

His laptop had several browsers opened, all of them with many tabs and many windows. She had no idea how he could keep track of his own doings and postings.

Then she remembered who was in question here; a man who single-handedly, in just a couple of hours, started a war with five – or more – gangs and cartels, pushing them into slaughter. Yes, he could keep track of tabs and Facebook comments.

And if he could do that with the tough, real killers, what chaos could he unleash on simple fans, naïve and trustworthy? That thought was a crucial one, that made her click on his tabs, when she remembered that he hadn't mentioned anything he was doing with the fans for a long time, and he kept posting, using all the time they weren’t watching episodes. What the hell was he doing? There wasn’t any arranged action with the M7 Vote and Promote Group besides #SeaOfCrimson.

But he wasn’t in his M7 group.

Her breath caught when she saw to which group almost all of his tabs led, with many different accounts, many names.

Then she started reading, and her worry first became disbelief, then grew into dismay.

“I’m gonna kill him,” she whispered in a choked whisper. Every head turned in her direction. “He is so fucking dead.” She jumped on her feet and started towards the bathroom.

She wasn’t sure, because she didn’t turn her head to Parker, but it seemed that Parker released one very low growl in her direction.

“Whoa, whoa, stop!” Hardison grabbed her around her waist and lifted her a little – she was so mad that she made a few steps in the air before she noticed she wasn’t moving forward. “What’s up?” He put her back on the sofa and stood blocking her way.

“He, he… gah!” she pointed to laptop.

“He, he, gah?” Nate’s calm voice had a laugh in it, and she darted him a pissed off look. Hardison tapped her on her shoulder and peeked into the laptop, quickly going through the threads and tabs. He, however, kept his hand on her shoulder while doing that, and she couldn’t get up.

“Anybody care to explain this more eloquently?” Nate went on.

Hardison produced a strange sound, and she glared at Nate with a _told you so_ glare.

“I’m gonna kill him,” Hardison whispered straightening himself up. His eyes were glazed.

Parker’s low sound, steady in the background, faded a little.

“Hardison?” Nate raised his eyebrows.

“He, he…” Hardison shook his head. “Wait until he comes out.”

“We must try to save what can be saved,” she bit her lip, pulling her phone from her pocket. “If it’s not too late already.”

Hardison sighed. “What do you think you can do? You can only explain-”

She raised her hand to silence him when the line clicked on. She quickly erased all worry from her voice and smiled. “ Hi Danneel, it’s Florence… look, I’m in a hurry… is Jensen home? Oh, in Boston for the PVA? Just great… no, nothing important, just tell him to check Twitter when you hear from him, okay? Of course, you too. Bye.”

She put the phone down and glared into the bathroom door.

Hardison sat beside her on the sofa, crossed his arms, and glared at the door, too.

.

.

.

***

.

Sophie was good at playing with fire, she always knew that, but she hesitated now. She had been watching Eliot since they returned from their quick smash and grab, studying him, thinking, trying to decide if it was the time – and place – for attack.

She now had him cornered and alone… and she wasn’t sure whether she had made the right call or not. Besides, to corner Eliot Spencer was _never_ a good idea.

She didn’t fear him… she feared only his answers.

The closed door wrapped them in their own silence, dividing them from the rest of the team, cutting off time, stopping everything. She slowed down too, radiated calm. Hoping that it would reach him.

“There must be something in this bathroom that affects you,” he stated softly. After the first surprise, his eyes closed, not to reveal anything.

She smiled and softened her face, relaxing her arms and lowering them down. This time, he would see only her, not a grifter.

She could ask him that. She was allowed to get a little closer than everybody else, since that job with the horses, with Aimee. They hadn’t talked much back then, but he let her speak about it and tell him what bothered her about his closing with Aimee after so many years had passed. She could always reach closer after that, talk to him on a more personal level. Yet, this was a different situation. This was a different man standing in front of her.

“I’m sorry I ambushed you with this, but I’m worried. Everything is spinning too fast, Nate’s plans seem to entwine into complicated words, not letters anymore, and I don’t... I can’t catch up with all that,” she bit her lip and sat on the toilet. “Now, the two of you… one more thing to ponder upon and try to figure out what that might mean. It’s only that. I simply don’t want more surprises.”

He nodded in acceptance, and some of his rigidly controlled tension eased away. But not all of it.

A _very_ different man.

Who avoided all her tries to draw from him his real thoughts about the PVA action, and his chances to live through that. Any other time, she would accept that and simply stop, but not now.

Leverage Consulting and Associates was caught up in some strange place of stillness and sorrow; a purgatory, waiting to see where the next step would take them. She could recognize the breaking points, the times of change. Their turning point lasted for ten days, but it wasn’t any less definite because of that.

Today, it would all come to an end. For good or bad. And she hadn’t gotten one word from him about anything after the PVA. As if, for him, everything already stopped there. No love. No future. No life.

She didn’t need to know whether he would fight for Florence or not, she knew the answer. All she needed to hear, desperately, was his thoughts about that, because it assumed thinking about future, about tomorrow.

She labored to hide her worry. “She will leave after the PVA. What are you going to do? Take her to the airport and wave goodbye?”

He sighed and lowered himself onto the bathtub rim, facing her.

“You won’t let me out until you ask every damn thing you have on your mind, right?” he said lightly, with a pained smile. Too lightly. “You’re a woman, for god’s sake, you should talk with her, not with me. But don’t,” he added quickly. “Don’t talk to her.”

He didn’t answer her question. “I won’t, unless she asks. To be honest, you are the one that’s important to me. I like her – but I don’t give a damn about her side of this.”

“There is no _this_ , Sophie,” he shook his head. “This is just a temporary... a slip of concentration. On both sides.”

He wasn’t lying. That was one part of the truth. He just didn’t say the rest of it, all ninety-nine percent of it.

She saw Hardison’s phone feed, just two seconds of their embrace on the sofa. She usually needed just one glance to read people, nothing more… and those two seconds gave her everything she had to know. She could feel a desperate command in every nerve and every muscle; a control, always control. This time, not to show Florence what he really felt. It was visible – to her – that storm of emotions whirling under his skin. His arms around that girl wasn't simply hugging her – he held her as if clutching life itself.

Just remembering that breathless need tightened her throat, endangering her voice.

So she chuckled first, to clear that lump and hide her sorrow. It went better than expected, because he raised his eyebrows and smiled in relief. “What if I ask you how you feel… emotionally?” she teased.

“Not you too,” he grumbled. “What did you expect? She's cute, sexy and smart. And here all the time, right in front of my nose.”

Somebody else would be deceived by this normal response. But he was a very closed man and this quick slip into the chatting mode of a normal person was just a play. He should’ve known better than to play that on her.

“True. It was hard not to notice her,” she smiled.

“Yeah, somethin’ like that. Nothing more.” He shrugged, and winced from the move. That told her much more than his light, conversational tone he managed to maintain. He was so concentrated on keeping his guard up that he forgot that _minor_ problem with a gunshot wound.

“So, nothing to worry about, just two consenting adults having fun?” She waited until he nodded, then went on. “Good thing she lives next door.”

This caught him unprepared. He maybe hadn’t even thought about that; some of the lightness in his eyes faded. “What do you mean?”

“She’ll continue to be in front of your nose… and with her husband far away so often, and her morals that are disputable, to say it lightly, you’ll have yourself a nice little-”

“Stop.” He got up, slowly. Nothing in his face changed, but his eyes were suddenly dark. “I know what are you doing, Soph,” he said hoarsely. “You don’t have to attack her to provoke my reaction. No need for that. If it was worth it, I wouldn’t react. But I’m tired of... games.”

But he couldn’t not react, in spite of his words.

She gave a small nod. “Fair enough. No games, I’m sorry,” she said. The bathroom was small and his tension filled it with unease; he must’ve felt it too because he slowly turned away from her and leaned on the sink with both hands, lowering his head.

“ _Will_ you fight for her, Eliot?” she repeated her question, gently.

“I would,” his reply was barely above a whisper. “But she is happy.” He slowly turned around to face her again. His guard was down now, no lightness in his eyes when they flickered to her, and then away. “I could steal her from her husband, use that attraction she feels – and what then? Drag her in _my_ world? Let her sink in death, violence and constant danger?”

“She is able to decide for herself. But you’re not giving her choice.”

“Damn right I’m not. In spite what you might think of me, I’m not going around ruining women and leaving them. I leave when I decide to leave, not because I want to… but before it became too dangerous for them. I have bounty hunters on my back, Soph. I never come to the office the same route twice in a row. I change safe houses once a month.”

“And what if she is the one worth keeping?” she asked. “Though, she isn’t your type, exactly. She is pretty, but she is blonde, and strange, and geek-ish. She is… bleached mini female Hardison.”

“She is,” a small smile escaped him. “Worth keeping. And it doesn’t matter what she looks like, she is… beautiful inside. She would be worth keeping whatever she looked like. And because of that, she has to go.”

She felt her eyes widening, and she quickly put some control back on her face. But she couldn’t help it – that idiot had no idea what exactly he just said. The definition of pure love… and he didn’t even notice it.

“So, let me get it straight… you will do nothing? You will let her go to her husband, just like that? And after all this ends, and she returns from New Zealand after a few months, you’ll just nod hello to her in the corridor if you meet?”

He shrugged again, this time more carefully. She bit back a silent curse, staring at him, trying to make him say anything _, anything_ about something later…. And he said nothing.

“Eliot?”

“Ya know, it isn’t _that_ important.”

Right. Of course it wasn’t. He was just coming apart at the seams, on one more level. Nothing to worry about, nothing important. She cursed Nate inwardly, for the hundredth time. _A little romantic involvement will be good for him, occupy him a little more_. Dear god, men were impossibly stupid creatures, so sucked up in their illusions and walls. All of them. This one, standing in front of her, particularly.

He must’ve seen something in her eyes, because he continued. “I've known her only a few days, and I was… I am a mess. Maybe nothing would’ve happened if I was okay. And this will pass. Women come and go, you know how it goes.”

She schooled her face into a smile, with effort. “That means you’ll go hunting again as soon as we’re done with this PVA?”

He opened his mouth to say something. No words came, and he just smiled. And he wasn’t aware he was doing it, that he couldn’t talk about any ‘later’… and that scared her the most. It would be easy if he refused to talk, on purpose, knowing what he was doing… this silent block was terrifying.

 _Damn you, Eliot Spencer_. She suddenly had no idea what to do with her hands, where to look, how to hide her fear. “Will you take a look at my leg?” she asked finally, with a crooked smile. “I really think I have teeth marks.”

“Sure.” The too quick response showed his relief.

Did she have a right to add to his troubles just because she was afraid for him? She wasn’t helping him, on the contrary, it seemed she just stirred his pain more, instead of calming it down.

She pulled down her sock; it was better than putting her hands on his shoulders and shaking him until his eyes lost that dreaded resignation. No, worse than that, it wasn’t resignation… he reconciled himself to the loss. To whatever may come for him today – he was ready.

The bite mark was at the side of her ankle, a few centimeters above it; he pressed the skin around it, turned her foot and observed it thoroughly.

“What kind of dress will you wear tonight?”

Strange question. “Little black dress, or the golden one, not sure yet. Why?”

“Wait here.” He got up and went out, leaving her sitting on the toilet seat. Did he just run away?

No, he wasn’t. He returned just a few seconds later, and closed the door after him. She stared at the thick black marker pen he used to write IDIOTS over their cups and George’s vase.

He sprayed a thin layer of antiseptic on her ankle; it burned and she squeaked. “What-?”

“You have solid, purple, very clear teeth marks,” he said waving with his hand to dry the antiseptic. “And you’re going into a crowd of police, agents, and security, just a few hours after Buck bit his kidnapper in the same spot. Buck will be there, too. A BandAid will draw the same attention. So you’ll get yourself a tattoo that will cover it.”

“Are you insane? You can't come near my leg with that, that-”

He grinned. “Stop whining and hold still. You don’t want my hand to slip.”

“Seriously?!”

Too late.

She leaned forward a little to see what he was doing, but he shooed her away. She couldn’t see it anyway, because his hand was in the way. She could just sit, looking down at him, and try not to squirm.

This definitely wasn’t something she expected – but if it put that grin on his face, an almost mischievous one, it was worth it. She looked at him sitting on the floor, in almost the same position that they'd been in the last time. This time he didn’t have tweezers, and his hands were steady.

Maybe she should be grateful for small victories. Maybe they were all that was important, building a bigger one, one at a time, strengthening him for whatever might come.

“There,” he sounded satisfied when he moved his hand away. He didn’t get up, just rested his back on the bathtub.

She peeked at her leg to see what he had done, and felt all the color draining from her face.

“Why did you make a butterfly?” she whispered. He raised his eyes to her.

“Why not?” He looked confused. “One wing for one line of teeth. The pattern on the wings covers it. It’s simple enough, and a common tattoo motif, no one will think it’s strange.” He looked at the drawing again and added a few more lines. “I’m not quite able to make a picture, ya know – if you want a portrait, or a skeleton on a motorcycle, go get Hardison.”

He didn’t know, she reminded herself. He wasn’t there when Parker told them about all the meanings of a butterfly. Butterflies carried the souls of dead warriors, she’d told them then. And as an afterthought, for herself, the thief had muttered about two tragic lovers that died together and their souls were transformed to butterflies. That last part had no meaning then, That night, it wasn’t connected with anything, but remembering it now wasn’t such a clever idea.

When would That Night stop reaching its cold fingers out to them?

A _black_ butterfly.

He was watching her intensely, noticing something was wrong. “Look, I could draw a dolphin instead… but this is an open bite, and it would be one hell of a fat dolphin… and I don’t know any lady that wears a whale all around her ankle. So be quiet and say thank you.”

“Thank you,” she said automatically.

Silence fell longer this time. He didn’t leave, didn’t ask if they were done. He knew, just as she had felt, that time was stopped in here. It wouldn’t continue to flow until they were finished. One more thing he just accepted, she thought, realizing just then how many different things he got used to accepting. Strange behavior for a natural born fighter. Yet, thinking better of it… it _was_ his usual way of winning. Letting the things come to him, not pursuing them. Accepting the hits that revealed the opponent’s weaknesses before striking his winning one.

Just this time, she couldn’t see, couldn’t _feel_ that winning in him, as if he got stuck on just accepting, and accepting, taking hits without any intention of returning them. Giving in and giving up could sneak up on a man masked as many things. How many hits he could take, anyway, before he gave up on returning them at all? She knew he was close to that edge – he was running on fumes.

She regarded his face uneasily, taking in all his tiredness, lines of pain, and new bitterness in the corners of his smile.

All he had left, he directed into tonight. No wonder he had nothing for tomorrow. Too much of everything lay on his back – and no hope for anything.

She clutched her hands in her lap until her fingers hurt.

“I have to ask you one question,” she said. “A ‘what if’ sort of question.”

He nodded. She knew he would. The old Eliot might fight her, refusing to talk, but this one couldn’t. This one just watched things happening to him, taking blow after blow, ignoring everything, preparing himself for the last stand.

“If the situation is different, if she was free, and you definitely, without any choice, wanted her in your life…” she started carefully, knowing that stirring the pain wasn’t a clever thing to do now. “ _Would_ you find a way to make it work, in spite of the danger and your way of life?”

She watched his face while speaking. His eyes shut down immediately when her words reminded him of hope. No, this time he wouldn’t allow her to see anything, to feel anything, but it wasn’t important what she would see. She had to give him something to think about.

Yet, at the same time, hope was the most cruel of all emotions.

“I probably would,” he said calmly. “There is a way to do it – never completely secure, but manageable. For a while.” He paused a moment. “Sophie…” he sighed tiredly. “Don’t try to fill my head with possibilities… it won’t work. It can’t work. You’re a romantic. There’s nothing romantic in this. This isn’t love, don’t mix attraction with feelings. This. Can’t. Work.”

“Because you don’t want it?” _Because you just accepted it, without trying to fight back_?

His utmost immobility gave her an answer at once; he was so concentrated on not giving away anything that he forgot to breathe.

“Because she knows too much,” he stated with a voice leveled to the point of being mechanical.

“About what?” she continued. She had to. Yet, she felt like her time bomb just gave her the two last choices. Red wire or green wire to cut. She balanced on the verge.

“About me.”

One more step. She took a slow breath and gentled her eyes even more. “And…?”

“So there’s no possibility she could ever love me,” he gave her a smile, a mere moving of the facial muscles… correctly executed, but frightening in its emptiness. “And you’ll agree that _that_ is a pretty important part of ‘making a relationship work’. Not even you can force a happy end to simple attraction, so don’t bother.”

“And she could never love you… why?” she asked, knowing she just cut the red wire.

His eyes flashed with all the suppressed annoyance. It almost hid the pain. “What part of ‘she knows too much about me’ didn’t you get?”

She slowly reached her hand and put it on his forearm; no matter how relaxed he tried to be, she felt the knotted muscles tensed and turned to stone. “You can do many things, Eliot Spencer, but you don’t have command of your feelings. No one has,” she said quietly. “Florence isn’t an exception.”

He said nothing, she saw he refused to hear what she was saying. And she couldn’t say more. She had told him she didn’t give a damn about Florence’s side of this, but it wasn’t true – there was only one side, theirs. His happiness couldn’t be separated from hers in this matter. Hardison’s phone showed her Florence, too, the same need in her embrace, the same desperate clinging to him. _Just attraction, right_. Both of them were equally trapped.

She took one more step into the minefield, cut one more wire. “I’m not quite sure that your view of the situation is correct. Just because you think something is true, or fear, or hope something is true… it means nothing. Think it over. Please.” She squeezed his arm and he lowered his eyes to her hand.

If she managed, just for one second, to make him think that it was _possible_ , she knew she could call it a success… because that would mean he would think about ‘later’. It would erase that dreadful resignation from his eyes. It might help him to pass that gap between now and tomorrow – the tomorrow that he wasn’t able to see.

But his words stuck in her heart like a knife and she felt it bleeding; he spoke with an ease – and with that acceptance that shot terror through her – about a life without love, where love wasn’t an option at all. And he really believed that no woman could love him if she _knew_ him. Just now, when she watched his lowered head, she realized what he really meant. How lonely he was. Always leaving before masks became too hard to maintain, before women knew him. Oh, they both shared that part… she got so lost in all her aliases, her own masks, that she had to leave everything to find herself – but she never lost hope for love. She had it, this strange sort of love with her own damn idiot. She had someone who knew her, loved her in his own way, she wasn’t lonely.

The mere though that he _accepted_ he would never have somebody, that he didn’t deserve love, was unbearable. Maybe she was a romantic… but she _knew_ him. And she loved him. All of them did. He was damn worth it, no matter what he thought of himself, what punishment he set for all the things he’d done.

She felt her hand tremble and bit her lip to stop the tears gathering in her eyes, but in vain. He raised his head and she saw his eyes change.

“You better let somebody love you,” she whispered, “before it’s too late.”

.

.

.

***

.

The only thing Eliot wanted – and needed desperately – was crawling back to a bed and erasing all shit from his head. Talking with Sophie left him exhausted and drained… and unstrung.

He was tired, tired of everything; he needed a quiet place to sort all unnecessary things in his mind and prepare for the PVA.

He took only one step out of the bathroom when he realized that it wouldn’t be possible.

He stopped and put his hands in his pockets, watching Florence and Hardison who stared at him with accusing, pissed off and _hurt_ eyes. He glanced at Nate, but he gave him no clue, sitting relaxed and enjoying the show with suspiciously bright eyes. Parker was, surprisingly, sitting on the armrest of Nate’s chair, what made them completely separated from the Geek Alliance.

The Geek Alliance, who mounted their horses, and they were waiting in a line with their light sabers ready for him.

He suppressed a sigh, put some order on his mind, put a neutral smile on his face. All of that demanded one hell of an effort, and he fought not to show them that. “What?” he asked.

“We let you on the internet,” Hardison started. “And I told everybody it was a bad idea… and we left you without supervision for, how long… one day? Two days? And what have you done? You left a trail of dead, killed fandoms behind you! Stay away from Tolkien, ya’ hear me?”

“What?” he repeated, not happy with a sound he made. Too low and too raspy. He really had problems switching his mind to this from... whatever it was, back in the bathroom. Back in there, he had to silence himself to the point of disappearing, to tune down every emotion, every response. He blocked himself into a senseless and empty shell, and it was really, really hard to return to himself now.

Florence was watching him with her head tilted, with an unreadable expression in her eyes. “Wait, Hardison,” she said. “Maybe he doesn’t know yet about the results. Eliot, you’re aware that the Supernatural fandom basically no longer exists?”

Ah, so that’s what it was all about. Why did everybody make a fuss about that show? “Sort of,” he said. “Wasn’t sure what the result will be in the end, but that was expected. What happened?”

Hardison huffed. “You happened,” he growled at him. “You, you-“

“You made them fight each other,” Florence stated in a level tone. “Why did you lie?”

He took a few steps and sat in the remaining chair, resisting the need to just lower himself as much as he could and close his eyes. “I have no idea of what you are talking about,” he said tiredly. “How did I lie… and to whom?”

“You made me believe you haven’t ever watched it, that you don’t know that Mark Sheppard is Crowley, that you don’t know anything about it except those two guys fighting demons,” Florence counted pretty calmly. “Why?”

“I haven’t. I don’t watch vampires, demons and other stupid shit.”

“Only one who watched that show, who loved and knew that show, could find a point that needed to be pressed in order to make them fight. How else could you know their weak spots? How else could you know about Destiel and Wincest, and the antagonism between Sam and Dean fans?”

He almost asked who the hell were those guys, but stopped when he remembered. “Hardison recently watched one recording, last year’s PVA ceremony, and those two were giving an award to some girl,” he explained slowly. “The camera showed their fans. Two groups of fans. With different t-shirts. One group for Sam, one for Dean, not sitting together, divided. That’s all. I didn’t need more to see their weakness.”

They both stared at him.

“T-shirts,” Hardison repeated.

“Yep. I searched around to see why, and realized they were in the same position as M7 fans were. Both actors were in the same category, they were practically fighting each other. I managed to direct our fans to vote only for the show, in general, and not waste their votes and time voting for actors – we are talking about the SpoiledTV poll, not the PVA – but Supernatural fans weren’t so united. Every time we were in the lead, it was because they fought, trying to make the other half vote for their actor. Then I found another potential source of destruction – Destiel shippers and their war on the producers and author’s team. It seems that they were pissed off because they thought that the authors owed something to them – if they imagined a ship, authors were there just to grant their wishes and write for them.” He noticed a small smile on Florence’s face when he said that. “I don’t really know the real truth, I’m just repeating the general sentiment about it. I found their weaknesses, I pressed them, and directed them to fight each other. Can somebody tell me what is the big deal about it, and why you are so upset? Supernatural is now way behind us. We have only Castle to get rid of, and we are safe.”

Florence took one long, long breath. He patiently waited.

“Because of you, thousands of people are… unhappy,” she said carefully, slowly. “Thousands are miserable, watching their friends fight each other. Watching everything good being torn apart and turned into something dirty. You ruined the show for them, the entire joy of it.”

He glanced at Hardison; his face was grim, and he looked like he was thinking the same. Did they really think that quarrelling over the internet, about some stupid vampire show was…yep, they did. He forgot who they were.

Just in case, he had to check. “You are seriously telling me that you are disturbed because fans of the rival show are arguing about which actor is prettiest? Is that what this is all about?”

The geek frown number seventeen flashed when they looked at each other. He couldn’t tell the meaning, though… probably _He just said that Ewoks are badass and we have to kill him_.

“It’s not his fault, actually,” Hardison shrugged at her. “He can’t feel it, he doesn’t know-“

“I’m right here, Hardison.”

“Look, man, you destroyed something good. Something positive. We ain’t doing _that_.”

“I ignited the fires that already had been burning – it would happen sooner or later. And according to the speed they jumped into the slaughter, they aren’t as good, nice and positive as you try to say.”

Silence. Again.

Sophie’s quiet steps closed in; she sat on the armrest of his chair, just as Parker sat on Nate’s, leaving the geeks on the sofa.

They stared at him as if their intensity could make him understand.

He focused, and tried to look as if he cared.

But he couldn’t. He had other problems to concentrate on now, and his annoyance slowly but steadily grew. Their priorities were weird. Only a few hours before the PVA, and they nagged because of Supernatural? Well, he certainly couldn’t think of it the same way they did, he had much more important shit to think about. To fear.

All his strength was currently going into maintaining a normal face, and that waste stirred different anger; this was so absurd that he just shook his head, and hoped that he would manage to hold himself together and not explode.

“Can we…” he started and blinked to focus – again – on them. “Can we continue later with this?” he managed to say, with a voice – again, dammit – unsteady and too quiet. He needed silence, as quick as he could get it, to close his eyes and think, to empty his brain before he lost it and said something wrong. Before all these accumulated fears started to pour out.

Hardison immediately caught that tone and narrowed his eyes for a second, followed with a quick nod. Florence caught something else, obviously, because she smiled.

“If you give me just two minutes, I’d like to explain it to you,” she said softly.

He leaned back in the chair, resisting the urge to cross his arms. “One minute, if you can.”

“In every fandom, you have a few percent of weird, nasty people who will use every opportunity to cause trouble and start fights. You ignited them, first. And it was enough to spread fighting all over, they feed each other. But, the majority of people are in fandoms because they are drawn in by the tone, feeling and message – not because of the shirtless actors. M7 is helping people; Supernatural saves the world, Castle solves crimes, bringing order, Star Trek shows us the future of the human race without racism, bigotry and fanatics,” she stopped, glancing at Hardison; he nodded her to continue. _He_ had his arms crossed. “You see, all this time you’re only talking about killing Nielsen, killing the C4 Facebook page, killing this, destroying that…” she went on even softer. “But you missed the point when it came to killing, and using, fandoms in your fight. They are not gangs and cartels that have to be destroyed. You attacked good people. For nothing. In this voting, the fight was important, not winning. It’s all about team work, bonding, and friendly rivalry – all fandoms together, doing what they do. Supporting their shows. You attacked their bonds.”

“She’s trying to say, very politely,” Hardison jumped in when she stopped, “that _fandomism_ is a general state of mind – we are all the same. You cut Supernatural – we bleed.”

 _Fucking unbelievable_.

“You two,” he stated carefully, “raise the weirdness to the highest level humanly possible.”

“We are many.” Hardison grinned.

“You are…” he bit out all he wanted to say, in the last second.

“Eliot, fandoms don’t like fights. Because of this, thousands and thousands of good, nice people are revolted, and they are leaving Supernatural.”

 _Good, thousands and thousands fewer voters_. “And the problem with that is…?” he asked.

“Strong Supernatural means strong M7,” she shrugged. “I don’t know how to explain it, I… we all share the same kind of love, just for different things. And love is… love is never to be destroyed. Not if you want something good to happen.” She lowered her eyes to her hands.

He looked at Nate, but all he saw was an interest – he watched this with intense concentration, but at the same time, completely out of it.

“Nate, analyses,” he said through the gritted teeth.

“On one side, we have a victory in the poll, M7 fandom united and strong, and their opponents scattered and unable to cause any trouble, leaving our fans enough time to work on promoting M7,” Nate stated slowly. Eliot barely stopped a glare at the geeks. “On the other side…” Nate thought for a second. “We have two upset people. Two of them, who obviously think that destroying the fandom this way, is equal to breaking the fingers of piano player one night before the competition.”

 _What_?

“You gotta be joking. There wasn’t anything dishonest in my doings, it’s a common tactic-“

“Eliot, Firefly was cancelled ten years ago,” Hardison said. “We _all_ still fight for it to return. We are connected with our love for shows, a plural – and separated with our preferences in genres. But it’s the same love.”

“You’re insane. You take that way too seriously.”

“I’ve never told you that you take cooking way too seriously. Nor will I ever. Okay, maybe... but in a good way. Certainly not with that indignation.”

“Okay, enough,” he sighed. This was too much. “Now that I’m aware of all the complexity of fandom culture, race and state of mind, can we finish with this? And before you start nagging again – yes, I’ll stop, I won’t push them further. Satisfied?”

Hardison exchanged glances with Florence.

“Well… no,” she said. “Can you… fix it?”

“Can I _what_?”

“Can you fix that mess… un-destroy Supernatural?” she darted one small smile. “It seems it was easy for you to do it to them, so it shouldn’t be difficult to, uhm, repair the damage.”

“I worked for days, hard, to make this happen, with numerous accounts, with hundreds of posts, comments, manipulating and cheating and… and you seriously want me to repair this in a few hours? Now? Before PVA, just like that?!”

They said nothing. They just fucking sat there, like two sad puppies.

Nate steepled his fingers, watching him. He hated when he was doing that – it was usually followed either with troubled stare, or with a smug smirk. This time, he would prefer troubled one.

But Nate wasn’t important now. Hardison was. Since he came from the bathroom, the hacker didn’t even once fall into his spiral; there wasn’t any of his usual overreacting, babbling and uncontrolled pouring of words. He _was_ upset with this.

He glanced to the bed, then looked at them again. Maybe, just maybe, occupying himself with something else while they were preparing for the PVA wasn’t a bad idea, after all.

“I can try,” he said slowly. “But I can’t promise anything.”

They both didn’t move, but the lifting of their mood was so obvious it was as if they jumped on their feet.

Just great. He got up, shaking his head… and went to save Supernatural.

 _For the geeks_. He was definitely getting too soft.

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***

 

 


	60. Chapter 60

 

 

 

Chapter 60

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***

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“Sophie, this is too tight. I can’t move, I can’t - “

“No. Just no. Don’t even think about changing into those awful trousers – you can’t wear a tuxedo with - will you stop typing, for god’s sake! I’m trying to - leave that tie alone! Nate!!”

Eliot hit send and posted his comment, with the other hand waving off Sophie’s hands flapping around his neck; she cornered him in the bed and attacked with a tie. He already had his white shirt on. Black trousers hung on the lower railing of the bed, looking more like tights than pants. He tried to imagine a roundhouse kick, or any knee hit, and swore under his breath. He wasn’t a fucking ballet dancer.

“Yes, Nate, _do_ come here and give us your opinion, please,” he growled at Nate who was already dressed – Sophie had chosen to traumatize him first. Black suit, dark grey shirt, silver tie. He looked miserable.

Parker, too. Sophie had forced her to try three dresses, just in case, and though the thief changed into her black, loose clothes immediately after that, she looked as if that experience would leave a lifelong scars.

Nate raised both of his hands in the air and retreated into the kitchen, the farthest away place possible. Orion followed him cheerfully, probably thrilled by a chance to leave more white fur on dark clothes.

Hardison was the only one who seemed to enjoy his fancy outfit: a dark grey suit and black shirt, the opposite of Nate's.

“Why do I have to wear a white shirt? I’m the only one who might get dirty – you better have a black one in Lucille - “

“Sweetie, if I gave you the black one, the first person to see you entering the cocktail party would either call an ambulance or run away screaming about the zombie apocalypse.”

He stared at her. He wasn’t _that_ pale. She returned his stare with raised eyebrows, not backing off an inch. So he gave up. Sophie and clothes – that was a combination that could destroy small countries; he had no chance to argue his way through this.

“You know, you should really go and check on Florence,” he suggested. “She’s been locked in the bathroom for more than half an hour.”

“ _More_ than half an hour?” Her eyes glazed with pity. “You know, half an hour is the usual time we spend just thinking about what to do in the bathroom, before we even start.”

 _Whatever, just go away_.

A quick thundering of bare feet came from the stairs. Florence flew down with a phone in her hand and with one of Sophie’s wigs on her head, long and black, that wavered behind her. If it was possible to look more beautiful, she'd just reached that level. He tried not to stare and failed miserably.

“I just received a call from the Apple executives, they want to arrange a meeting after the PVA to talk about sponsorship!”

“Great news, dear.” Sophie flashed a smile at her.

“You did that.” She smiled back and ran upstairs, again at the same speed. She was still in her sweatpants and shirt, so he decided to trust Sophie a little more when it came to the matter of bathroom behavior.

“Will you do me a favor?” he said, letting her continue with the tie, stopping any growl that might escape. “Go into the kitchen and destroy any coffee we have left.”

She glanced after the whirlpool of hysteric energy that had just hurricaned up the stairs and smiled. “Not a bad idea. But it’s better for her to freak now than at the ceremony. Besides, she might get tired,” she added as an afterthought. There was definitely a note of hope in her voice.

It was pretty hard to ignore the grifter who was busy tightening a black rope-ish looking thing around his neck, and to continue to type as if nothing was happening, but he did well. Until she reached to his wrist – in the middle of commenting! – and tried to put cufflinks on his shirt. Instead of five sentences, his comment went online with only 'wrdffe' in it.

“Okay, that’s it! Go, go… somewhere else, and leave me to work!”

“In a bit.” She gleamed at him, then she flashed her eyelashes at his hair.

“No! Don’t even think – I’ll do it, I’ll tie it up, I promise, just let me finish this – it’s important and I don’t have nearly enough time for it!”

“Supernatural? What do you think you can do, anyway?”

He had no idea… wait, no. One idea he did have, but that was all – ideas, when pressed with a tight deadline, were useless. But before he could say anything, another thundering came from above their heads, from the corridor that led to Nate’s bedroom and his bathroom. They both sighed.

Florence stormed down again. “I’m nearly done,” she said breathlessly, going to the bags. She picked up the Louis Vuitton package, and for a second just stood there, helpless. The package went from her knees over her head; could she even see where she was going? “I got it, I got it,” she murmured, as if in response to his mental question, turning to the stairs. “I can at least see the floor, so I know where I am.”

“Do you want me to help - “ Hardison tried, but she stopped him.

“No, no, everything is under control. Eliot, I have to go to my apartment for my shoes.”

“Tell me which pair and I’ll bring it to you.”

“What?” A stupefied question came from the package. He knew he'd said something utterly stupid even before Sophie rolled her eyes and left him, going to Nate. “How can I know which one before I see them all and try them?”

He thought about six different logical replies, but then gave up. “Okay, no problem. We’ll get your shoes. When?”

The package trotted to the stairs, and he squinted. “Dunno… fifteen minutes?” She passed the two small stairs and reached the winding stairs, resting the package on the railings and peeking behind it. “By the way, I got another call, from the PVA organizers – they said I should come one hour before the cocktail party and ceremony for a sound rehearsal. That’s strange… if they call all nominees to come earlier, they could freely move the beginning - “

“No.” Hardison cut her off.

They all turned to Hardison. He was standing with his tablet in front of the screens; Eliot knew he was standing only because he thought he looked gorgeous in his suit. The hacker was going through the blueprints, but now he was glaring at Florence as if she'd just insulted his Nana.

“I tried to tell you – heck, I used foreshadowing, implying, insinuating and hinting in all possible forms, but you just ain’t listening – and that’s enough. Florence, you _won_ the damn thing. They want you to be at the sound rehearsal because you’ll have to receive the Award.”

The package stood silent for a few moments.

“I won? The Magnificent Seven beat The Walking Dead? You’re insane.”

“Yep, and Pretty Little Liars, Burn Notice and White Collar.”

She finally lowered the package on the lowest stair and looked at him.

“I don’t have a speech ready,” she whispered.

“Modify your Oscar one – c’mon, everybody has the Oscar speech.”

Just great. It was typical for Hardison to think about speeches… whereas the only thing Eliot could think of was a sniper, and a red dot on her forehead when she stood on the stage, completely exposed. He exchanged a glance with Nate; a slightly bitter edge in his smile showed Eliot he was thinking about similar problems.

“And in case you were wondering, no, no scripts were working on PVA voting,” Hardison went on.

“But you said you hacked into their databases… you even made us guess what exactly you'd done.”

“And you didn’t guess – because whatever question you asked, you would’ve been wrong.” His smile became smug and broad. “I did nothing. No-thing. Cause I didn’t have to – your people did all of it by themselves. They _really_ won that Award, Florence.”

The pride in her eyes was priceless.

But, Hardison obviously wasn’t finished. “I did do something… illegal,” the hacker said in a lower voice, and a hint of real worry flew over his face. He took a piece of paper out of a printer and went to her. “I entered your personal bank accounts, all your savings… and I cleaned them out completely. Wiped every dime.”

“What!? Why?”

“Your odds of winning were fifty to one. I put it all on your winning.” He handed her a piece of paper. She took one look and choked. “Now you have enough money to make three episodes all by yourself.”

“What - what - what if - “

“I would simply put it back. But that wasn’t an option. I monitored everything. I knew you were going to win.”

She stood motionless, still looking at the paper. “I need to process this,” she whispered. “Ergo, the bathroom. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” He waved his hand at the package. “Do you want me to - “

“No.” She put the paper between her teeth and picked the package up, going up the stairs. “I’ll b’ r’ght back.”

Hardison returned to his laptops on the coffee table, and Eliot tried to concentrate on Supernatural again. In vain. The black wig did something miraculous to her face, to that warm, golden hue of her skin, making it lighter, almost ivory. He forced himself to erase the memory of touching that silk, but his fingers couldn’t forget that. He almost sent another 'dhgssa' in a comment. If nothing else, that feeling was better than the one he couldn’t get rid of… the feeling of time slowly seeping through the same fingers, faster and faster. He should’ve been resting, not posting on Facebook, trying to do an impossible thing.

He reached with his hand to loosen the tie a little, but a warning _tsk-tsk_ came from the dining table; Sophie was on high alert. They all were, he realized looking at them – all busy, all professional, but under all that he could feel the same manic energy that Florence didn’t know how to hide. They knew. They simply directed it, but not enough to hide it from him. He felt their tension as a cloud growing thicker every time they looked at him, spoke to him or came close.

He definitely didn’t like that he remembered what Florence had told him night before, that they cared much more than was clever. That could mean trouble today.

Nate’s phone rang at exactly the right moment, before he sank deeper into a session of paranoia. That shit always ended with endless 'what if's, picturing all the worst-case scenarios, and he had already had enough of them for three months of constant fear.

“Yes, Patrick?” Nate answered a call, waving to Hardison to put Bonnano on speakerphone.

“… and the entire block is evacuated. The security frenzy just went up ten levels - “

“Wait, wait, can you start from the beginning? They didn’t hear that.”

Bonnano took one long, calming breath. “I said, that the Security alert just went into red – the FBI received a terrorist threat. An unknown organization has threatened to blow the entire PVA up. Not only did they set all security measures to maximum, but they also evacuated the entire block. Hundreds of people are combing every inch of it right now. And my question is – do you have something to do with it? More specifically, did you arrange that for who-knows-what reasons, for your non-existing, we-are-just-innocent-visitors plan? So I can stop worrying.”

“Sorry to disappoint you, but no. I had no idea. Good thing you called us – it isn’t public yet?”

“Nor it will be. Damn.” Bonnano let out a troubled sigh. “I'd hoped it was fake… we really don’t need more trouble. Don’t add anything to this, okay? Be invisible.”

“No problem – low profile at its best.”

“Right,” Bonnano grumbled and cut the call.

“Do we have to ask who did that?” Sophie asked.

“There is always a possibility that there's a real threat, you know,” Nate said, still looking at the phone. “But it would be coincidence, and we all know what we think about convenient coincidences.”

“So, Don Lazzara thinks he made it impossible for us to enter and be with Florence?” Hardison smirked.

Fifteen seconds wasn’t a long time, but it spread to eternity while Nate thought. They all waited, not interrupting.

“That’s part of it, but… no, it isn’t logical,” he said finally. “He wants us all at the PVA so he can deal with all of us – we all brought Knudsen down. There’s something more in that… He probably thinks that it will be safer to deal with us while we try to enter. That’s the most vulnerable part, and he’ll be ready.”

“And speaking of entering…” Hardison clicked his screens, putting the blueprints on them. “It’s time for a final, official briefing.”

“Can it wait a few minutes, so I can go for my shoes?” Florence asked out of nowhere. She was getting better and better at sneaking up on them. This time she had tiptoed to the middle of the stairs before Eliot heard her.

She wore a red-haired wig this time. _Hell, no_. He didn’t even know Sophie had one of those.

“What’s the point of that, that…” He waved his hand at her hair.

“Sophie said I have to try them, because I’ll have to – maybe – hide as a technician. Or something,” she said carefully, taking the wig off and looking at it. “Why?”

Because you’re distracting as hell – he couldn’t just say that. And he couldn’t just say _blergh_ , the only vocal answer he was now capable of.

“Shoes,” he produced a word. “Go. And stay behind me. Hardison, keep an eye on the cameras.”

He got up, leaving the laptop on the bed, noticing that none of them said anything to interrupt this short exchange. Neither Nate, nor Hardison, replied to her question about waiting. He darted them all one suspicious glare while going out, just in case. Nobody even blinked.

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***

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Nobody had been in her apartment since he'd found the bomb in it, and he checked three small marks he'd left on the door and on the inner door frame – nobody had tried another forced entrance. No bombs, no threats; the apartment was safe.

“Can you find the shoes in the dark?” he asked when they entered the hall. The corridor light that went inside with them showed him the old phone she'd hit him with that first night, and he smiled.

“Why?”

“Because your blinds ain’t shut completely, and we don’t want to show the reporters that someone is in your apartment.”

“Oh. Okay.” She sounded quiet and he turned around to look at her. The dim light showed him nothing, just her silhouette.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nate avoided my questions from the beginning, so nothing new there… but today he isn’t looking directly at me while avoiding them. That’s new. And I’m scared. And I want to hug you, but I’m not sure if it’s wise.”

“It isn’t,” he sighed. Of course, the next second he was beside her, doing just that. Damn, it felt so good to just hold her again. _Wise, right_. Nothing was wise today.

“But no kissing, okay? We agreed - “

“Of course not, definitely no - “

He could swear he did nothing, but he also could swear that she didn’t do anything either. There was no movement of any sort, except for breathing – that damn breathing that stopped their kiss after a while. They both, at the same time, became aware that they weren’t in the middle of the hall anymore, but by the door to a living room. _On_ the door. Four meters away.

He slowly lowered her down until her feet touched the floor. All that non-moving and non-kissing had made a mess of her hair, and his shirt was unbuttoned and his tie… _Shoes. Focus, Spencer._ Damn, he wasn’t sure if he was still holding her, or if she was holding him, but the result was… He shook his head to clear it and took a step back. She did the same.

“Shoes,” she whispered. “I have to - ”

“Yep. Go. Now.”

He sighed in relief when she darted past him and disappeared into the darkness, trying to calm his breathing and too-fast heartbeat. He leaned on the wall, listening to her rustling through the closets. The coldness on his back felt good.

This was the worst time to allow himself to feel alive again, and he knew it. And he could do nothing to stop that feeling. Wise or not, she'd done that and he wished he could hate her for that. It took only one look at her, and all the 'what if's attacked with all cruelty – yes, he _was_ capable of thinking about something else except the worst case scenarios. Yet, he couldn’t handle those 'what if's; he couldn’t bear them. Not now.

She returned too soon, with a bag. “We can go,” she said quietly, but she came to him, dropping the bag at her feet. There was something new, different in a way she reached for him, touched his face. He ordered his hands to stay still; if he reached for her they would have another blackout.

“What if,” she started and he flinched inwardly, “refusing to lose isn’t enough to live?”

 _Then you die_. He looked at the fear in her eyes. “Then you refuse a little more.” He smiled. “And change tactics if that doesn’t work. To start winning is the preferable tactics in that case.”

Her palm was warm on his cheek. He put his hands in his pockets.

“You’re still full of crap.” She smiled while saying that, but he didn’t have to see her eyes in the dimmed light to feel the sadness in her voice. “This is the last chance to speak freely, to be this close, to… we're running out of time. For everything.” Her hand moved. She buttoned his shirt up and corrected his tie. “I can’t catch up with things. I’m not ready for this… for the PVA. I’m scared. I’m not reliable.”

“And you don’t have to be reliable. I’ve told you, remember, that you shouldn’t know anything about strength? We're here to make sure you won’t get into a ‘be strong or die’ situation. That’s our job. Yours is only to accept that award and smile. And leave when we tell you to leave – without asking why first.”

“Ah, a modified Cinderella trope, with a touch of 'When a clock strikes twelve.'” Her smile was twisted again, and her hand stopped moving. “This episode would be one hell of a season finale. And speaking of season finales… I decided we won’t watch the last episode of the Fifth season. Too much blood, betrayal and death. All my fears. The last one we watched will do – you don’t need any more info for the fans.”

“No time for it, anyway,” he said lightly. _No time for anything_.

“Why is Nate avoiding looking me in the eyes, Eliot?” She breathed the question, her eyes searching his face.

 _Because he will do the betraying part of your fears_. And he couldn’t look her in the eyes now, too, because he knew he would probably carry out the rest of them. He took her hand and kissed her fingers, one by one, and pulled her closer so she couldn’t see his eyes, just feel his embrace.

“We are all a distraction for him now… he doesn’t look at us either,” he whispered. _This_ distraction worked. She relaxed, returning the hug. “And there is one trick to catch time that’s running away from you,” he added quietly, closing his eyes. “Just stay still and act like you’re up to something… time can’t resist it, just like cats can’t – it’ll first slow down and then come back to check on you.”

“Crap, I knew it,” she chuckled. “Orion is a bad influence.”

“Shhh... one minute of this, and you’ll get four hours back. I promise.”

And it worked. At least for him. He knew this was the last minute he would have with her, the last touch and the last kiss.

The 'what if's, this time, were silent.

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***

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No time for shoes. The moment they returned to Nate’s apartment, her carrying the bag with the shoes, and Eliot the pet carrier she'd told him to bring along, Hardison waved to them to take their positions in front of the screens. He already had a few pictures up.

She wasn’t sure, but they all seemed to stop talking about something when they returned.

The three of them for sure – Nate maybe not. He was still in the chair, waving a ribbon in front of Orion’s nose. She'd caught him doing that once before and had thought it was strange. Now, in this situation, combined with his thoughtfulness and withdrawal from everything, it was troublesome.

As if guessing her thoughts, he raised his head when she stepped closer, and looked her directly into the eyes. _Be careful what you nag about_ , she warned herself, darting one smile at him. His eyes sent no message, nothing that she could read, and she sat without a word, trying not to squirm.

“In short, the overall situation,” Hardison said when Eliot sat too, in the chair opposite to Nate. He opened his laptop immediately, checking the messages, and she saw how Hardison wavered between warning him to concentrate, and letting him do whatever he was doing to save Supernatural.

Hardison sighed, deciding to continue. “Let’s forget that we have a classical _deus ex machina_ situation, when the PVA this year so conveniently came to Boston, instead of forcing us all to fly to L.A. It gave us, if not an advantage, then at least some leverage. This town is our playground.” He turned around and dragged closer a big board with blueprints pinned onto it. Florence couldn’t see anything clearly, but it seemed he had every detail covered.

“This is the Boston Opera House.” Hardison clicked a remote and a red, golden, huge hall flashed on the first screen. She’d never been inside and she'd had no idea how rich and classy it looked, completely different from the Nokia Theatre where the last ceremony had taken place.

“This is smaller than the Nokia Theatre,” she said. “And looks too light, too golden.”

“Don’t worry, this picture is just for show. Forget everything you saw on this picture, except the position of galleries, balcony and the orchestra… they've modified everything that could be touched. The entire ceiling is now a thick net of construction beams, platforms, cameras, cables. It’s high above everybody and it will be hidden in the darkness. They also removed the first seven rows of seats and put tables for nominees and important guests. The stage is much broader and deeper. I hacked into their plans and for now, they have an impressive set of effects – combined lasers, huge glass panels and water.”

“Water? What are they going to do, make pools or fountains?” Sophie asked. “In an old, historical building? Who authorized that?”

“No idea – but maybe Boston desperately wants the PVA next year, too. They probably agreed to everything. I don’t know, exactly, what they plan to do with the water – all I could find is that it's connected with some foreign artist, some famous French guy who will come especially for the mysterious water performance. To be honest, I didn't have time to dig too much. I had more important things to research. Like this.” He pulled up the front view of the Boston Opera House and surrounding buildings, letting the picture spread over all six screens. “This narrow white building is our Opera – but it’s just the front door, so to speak… it’s huge behind it, it goes through the entire block, all the way to Mason Street. That’s the block that Bonnano talked about – apparently, everything between Washington Street and Mason Street is closed and empty. Look at the bluish building left of the Opera. Conveniently situated between the Boston Opera House and the vintage Paramount Theater, Emerson’s Paramount dorms take up the top 4 floors of the Paramount building. Beneath them reside performing arts rehearsal studios, classrooms, giant television and film studios, faculty offices, and performance spaces. Perfect for the PVA, don’t ya’ think? Only the back part of it is the dorm, now empty and arranged to serve the PVA's needs. One entire floor has been turned into a hall for a cocktail party, and they've connected buildings. They literally made holes in the walls. They'll have a Security Headquarters on one floor, and all that goes under media coverage in the rest of it. Maintenance crews, emergency crews, the rest of the Security, technicians and the entire bunch of people that actually work there, will be spread all over the back parts of all the connected buildings, giving us a perfect opportunity to walk among them, and all over the place, mostly unnoticed.”

“I can’t tell you what I'll have to do before we get there and I talk with coordinators,” Florence said when Hardison stopped to take in some air. “If they raised the level of security to red, that means I’m practically completely safe. Don Lazzara won’t be able to do anything, nor his men. I know that the entirety of Dvorak Security will be there, but they can’t just kill somebody in the middle of a crowd of FBI and Secret Service agents alerted and half-crazy because of terrorism.”

Eliot raised his eyes from the laptop and looked at her. “I could,” he said. “Any crowd means danger, gives more opportunities. Besides, if we only keep you alive during the ceremony, we did nothing. He won’t stop. So we have to stop him tonight, once and for all – and we won’t have a better chance than being in the same building at the same time.”

She averted her eyes from him and looked at Nate. “So, now comes the part when you talk about The Plan?”

“No, we discussed the plan before,” he said. “For your information, it’s very simple, like all good plans are in the beginning… we will catch him on something small, and use the huge audience to make his fall public. Worldwide public. Hardison, how many - “

“A little less than two billion people is the estimated number of viewers – it goes live.”

She suppressed a sudden hit of panic when they reminded her of the audience and her fear of bringing them to unleash chaos. Her unease must have been clear to everybody, because Nate smiled at her. Somebody ought to tell that man that his smiles were anything but calming and reassuring.

“Low profile,” he reminded her. “Remember, we're wanted criminals. We can’t risk getting caught, even recognized… one wrong move and we all go down. We won’t do anything that would draw any attention to us.”

“And how often your plans stay in that small phase A - until the end?”

“Never.” He dared to smile again, this time not even trying to look calming. “I thought you’d have gotten used to that already. Besides, we have more than one plan A tonight – we have Season Six to play out. Pressing Brewer might not be equally important as bringing down Don Lazzara, but again, it’s the last chance for that, too.”

Orion snatched the ribbon from Nate's hand, using the moment of his divided attention, and ran behind their backs, on the backrest of the sofa, to Eliot.

“And this is what happens when your concentration slips.” Nate followed the cat with his eyes. “Continue, Hardison. Show her the backups for plans B to M.”

She didn’t know why Hardison glared at him for a second before he returned to his screens. “Police barricades and traffic – Eliot, pay attention now, you didn’t see this, it’s the newest update.” He waited until Eliot hit two more keys and turned to look at the plan he spread in front of them. “The red dot in the middle is the PVA. The yellow around it is the block that’s evacuated and made into our playground - “

“Not just ours,” Eliot said calmly. “Don Lazzara is waiting – they'll be all around, too, waiting for us to enter the perimeter.”

“Whatever – our playground, surrounded by these red lines that stand for police Do-Not-Cross lines. No traffic, no cars, just emergency vehicles with permissions. The thick red parts are the checkpoints, with SWAT teams.”

“How do you know?” Florence was sure none of them went there to check, and all the news they’d been watching had no info about it.

Hardison pulled one picture that briefly showed a big black armored car, from above, and removed it before she could be sure if the letters in the corner were NSA or NASA. Both were equally disturbing.

“Okay, if I understood correctly, if somebody sees you and checks your identity – what would happen in the first step you take toward that line – you’ll get arrested. You just said that everything is closed, completely shut down. No way you can even come near Washington Street, much less the middle of it to enter the PVA. What are you going to do? A helicopter airdrop, jump directly into the middle of the guarded circle?” She was kidding, of course, but when Hardison and Nate exchanged glances, she regretted it immediately.

“Exactly that, but completely opposite.” Hardison grinned.

“Things can’t be exactly the same and completely opposite, Hardison.”

“We won’t jump down into the middle of the guarded block from the air.” He pulled up another set of pictures on the screens. “We're gonna jump _up_. In the middle. From underground. Again, see the red-marked plan? See that blue line that goes with Washington Street, with a few branches, going left and right from the main one? That’s the old, abandoned subway tunnel. “

The hacker put some old, black and white drawings near the opera picture. “This is a part of the plan. Details aren't important. It’s not secret, so that means that at least one security crew will be underground – but they only know about the main tunnels, with tracks. They don’t know, and I had to dig almost impossibly deep, that the old tunnels border even older smugglers' tunnels, corridors and rooms and many passages.”

“Oh, so that’s why you were worried about the floods, rain and tide warnings?” she asked.

“And we're still worried about that. There’s no way to know what state those tunnels are in before we enter, no satellite can help with that… and it'll get worse during the day, with high tide and peak flooding sometime tonight. We might enter – but we can’t know if it'll be possible to exit the same way. Which means we're going blind.”

“And without any weapons, I presume?” she asked evenly.

“Security checks will be at every step. We can’t risk it.”

She listened to Hardison’s words, but she watched Parker. The thief glanced at her for a second and their eyes met, but she turned her head again to the screens without any answer.

Something black flew in front of her nose and landed on Eliot’s laptop. He looked at Sophie, who'd thrown it, and picked it up with two fingers.

“Silk? Seriously?”

“It’s a classy black waistcoat – you people would call it a vest - and it goes under the suit jacket. Put it on. By the way, I notice you’re still in sweatpants, and my patience is growing thin. _Move_.” Sophie’s eyes turned to Florence next. “You, get dressed too. You have to see if everything is all right. We don’t have so much time anymore.”

“Going.” She stood up, perfectly aware that she was just being chased away to the upper bathroom so they could discuss their plans with more details, but there was nothing to do about it. Besides, Sophie was right… and if she sneaked once or twice to the stairs, she might even catch a few of those details.

But Sophie stood up, too. “I’ll help you.” She smiled.

Florence twitched inwardly, remembering their last talk in that bathroom – it hadn’t been a pleasant one. Sophie and the bathrooms – it was a dangerous combination. She could only hope that this time they would just coo over the dress.

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***

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It took only one look at Sophie, when she closed the door behind them, to know that this talk would be much, much worse than the last one. There wasn’t anything gentle and soft in the grifter now; she was all sharp edges, sharp eyes.

She held her hand when Florence tried to open the package. “Wait. Before we start with the dress, I have to ask you something.”

Maybe this wasn’t just a diversion to keep her away from planning. “Yes?” She sighed. “I won’t like it, right?”

“No you won’t,” she said. “The last time we talked here, you told me that what you feel _is_ a kind of love. Are you sure you’re not just mixing that up with a simple attraction?”

“I would very, very much like it if this was just an attraction. That would be easy. I’m in deep shit. And you know it.”

“No, I don’t,” Sophie said, and an odd gleam flared in her eyes. “Not really.”

“Why now, Sophie?”

“I have to tell you something about love, all kinds of love, including the one you think you feel… There is none unless you know a man.”

“I know enough.”

“No, you don’t.” Sophie took her by her shoulders and steered her to sit on the toilet, pushing the package away. She just blinked, carefully.

The grifter waved a warning finger when Florence opened her mouth to form a question. “Shut up and listen,” she said shortly. “Florence, he's a killer. He killed in the army, as a mercenary, as a hit-man, in Black Ops. He is ruthless and merciless. He also, probably, killed innocent people. He is a bad guy, Florence. And he's said that he'll never be clean from the things he has done. He hasn't changed. He is full of darkness and pain – there’s no redemption for him. He knows it. He can’t be saved.”

“Why – “ Florence cleared a lump in her throat, and tried again. “Why are you telling me this?”

“If you love someone, something, whatever, you ought to know what, exactly, you love – or it isn’t love at all.” Sophie's eyes never left her, she kept them locked on hers. “We help people now. He uses all his… darkness, for that cause now. And he takes punishment, because deep, deep inside him, he thinks he deserves it. And he is waiting to pay for everything – not just now, tonight at the PVA – always. He is waiting to be killed. Sometimes, I think we are the only thing that kept him alive, we, and all the people that still need our help. And he will continue with that, with paying for what he has done, with blood, fights, bullets, broken bones, taking more than he can endure. He will never stop. Until someone stops him.”

Surprisingly, the shock dissipated, and she felt a first twitch of anger. “You have no right to talk about things he didn’t want to share!”

“You’re right – he wouldn’t share it, because it’s not safe for you to know them. But I am thinking what is fair for _you_ , Florence. I've given you something that nobody knows, and it’s up to you to see what to do with that. You will probably back off - a very wise thing to do – but, darling, if you decide to find out more, on top of what you already know – only then will it be true. And you will know why you did it. You've always said that you’re a sucker for information, that you have to know everything. Now you know. It’s only fair for you, because… it’s not only him I’m worried about. Only him that I care for.”

She stared at her, feeling tired. Old. Scared. Empty.

Sophie came one step closer and covered Florence's hand with her own.

“The true value of a man is measured with what people are willing to do for him,” she whispered. “Remember that, when deciding what to do.”

She had told her that all of them would die for him, she remembered. Her brain refused to think, overwhelmed and stunned. She could only sit there and stare stupidly, unable to produce a word.

Sophie smiled and turned around.

“And now, the dress,” she said, cheerfully opening the package with genuine excitement in her voice. “Chop, chop, darling. We have to make you dazzling.”

Jesus. Florence gathered herself and managed to get up. Everything else, like talking, smiling, feeling… would simply have to wait.

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***

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This time, he _locked_ the fucking bathroom door behind him. No more surprises.

His worst fears just confirmed themselves. The black trousers were his size, all right, but at the same time too tight for everything he would have to do. And there was no help, no way he could negotiate normal pants into this suit combination.

The painkillers from the morning hadn't worn off, so changing the bandages wasn’t torture this time, just a regular painful adventure. He added two more layers and bound them tighter, finishing by putting the shirt and the tie back on. The vest, though silk and useless, would help to keep all of it together even better. A knife holster went over the vest – if needed, he could easily get rid of it, but it was better to have knives ready.

“You should’ve told her you’ll have knives.” A voice just a meter from him almost made him jump.

“Dammit, Parker! I locked that door!”

Parker shrugged, not impressed a bit. She leaned on the door frame, watching him.

“What do you want?” he growled.

“Not sure.”

He glanced at her, checking. She didn’t look upset, but there was definitely some aura of unease around her. Her immobility was always a good clue for reading her moods.

He knew what troubled her. He also knew she might not be able to find a way to express it.

“In fact, it’s good you’re here,” he said, erasing all hurry from his voice. “I wanted to talk to you.”

“Eh? About what?”

“I need someone to take care of George, if they kill me tonight.”

“Okay.” She nodded. “But why me? Hardison is much better with living things, or Sophie.”

“Because you were the only one who would answer that sentence with simply okay, or no, without reassuring me that it won’t be needed, that I’ll return. That’s why.”

“Will it be needed?” She tilted her head the same way she did when she’d pointed a gun at him. That had started in the bathroom, too, he remembered.

“I don’t know. Probably.”

She scrunched her nose, thinking, and he had to smile. Only with her could he talk like this, without all the emotional complications and drama. She also knew he was right, and she wouldn’t waste her time in reassuring him.

“Do you want a motivational speech?” she finally said.

“No, not really.”

“You _do_ know your dying isn’t acceptable?”

“Yep, I know.”

“And you’ll work on it?”

“Definitely.”

“Okay then. Leave me the notes for George before we leave.”

And she was gone. He heard the locking of the door behind her.

He kept himself busy with cleaning up the mess he'd left behind and took the next dose of all the pills he had to take. Shaving and tying up his hair took just a minute, and then he was ready to go.

But he stayed for a little longer. He had been right when he’d told Florence that stillness slowed time down. His thoughts slowed, too, caught the rhythm. If he just managed to keep himself in this calm, concentrated state, he would do great. He wasn’t afraid that he would be too slow in a fight – at least not in the beginning – instead, he feared his reactions being slow in general. He would be exhausted completely before the first hour ended, and everything would continue to speed up, with him unable to catch up, reacting wrong, or too late. That was the real danger. For them. That’s what he was afraid of. And there wasn’t any help; he could do nothing about it.

Even now, he was tired of just being awake and on his feet, yet the day hadn't even been strenuous.

He checked the bathroom one more time. Everything ready, no need to hide in here and ponder upon…un-ponderable things.

He went out, ready even to put the jacket on, if Sophie continued to nag. But the grifter was still upstairs with Florence, so he took his chair again, to check on Supernatural for the last time.

“Any good news with that?” Hardison asked as soon as his hand touched the damn thing.

“I don’t know yet,” he said. Hardison’s face fell, so he sighed and continued. “Look, you know how tricky is to post anything after you've posted something completely different. Your fandoms are a strange sort of organism, and I can’t simply go there and tell them to stop fighting, just because I said so. I had to go through the usual channels, that means first replying and commenting, then answering questions, before I got a chance to post anything – in a main, separate post – that would bear any significance. I did it, okay? But to see what's going to happen, we'll just have to wait, and I will have to continue replying and explaining and posting - “

“Eliot.” Hardison grinned. “Geek spiral.”

Parker snorted, and even Nate turned to them, blinking in surprise.

Eliot stood for a moment, caught in the middle of a word. _Breathe in, breathe out_.

“How long…” He managed to say that calmly. "Have you been waiting for a chance to say that?”

“Three long days.” Hardison’s grin gleamed further. “It was worth waiting, so let me enjoy it for a little longer. So… in short – do you think you’ll be able to fix it or not?”

“Maybe,” he said carefully.

“And what exactly did you do?” Hardison suddenly sounded a little suspicious.

“Somethin’,” he said slowly.

“Eliot…”

“I used the things you’ve babbled about, modified them and wrapped them into a few… tricks. You’ll see. Or won’t. Anyway, you'll have to give me that… that… flat book reading thing – I’ll need to work on it more.”

“A tablet? You want to bring the _tablet_ with you?!” Hardison stared at him as if he'd grown another head.

“I don’t want to… I have to. And don’t say whatcha gonna say, I warn you – my patience is non-existent.”

Maybe it was something in his eyes, or his voice, but Hardison, surprisingly, didn’t push it further. Maybe he just took some time to gloat in silence. In any event, that silence was welcome.

“Finish everything you’re doing,” Nate said. “Hardison, play us the latest news about the PVA and M7 while we wait for - nope, here they are.”

He wasn’t thinking, really, about that dress, and maybe that was why he got completely stunned when he turned around to look at Sophie and Florence as they came down the stairs.

A rich, dark green silk wrapped around her body like a glove, showing every curve; her shoulders and bare arms shone as if reflecting the barely visible golden lines that went through the fabric. She looked like a statue. She was _perfect_. The dress followed the contours of her body over her waist and hips, and just at the middle of her thighs spread in waves around her to the floor. Emeralds and gold in her ears and on her wrists made her hair sparkle even richer, every golden curl shining with its own light.

Hardison was pouring out compliments, grinning like a fool, but Eliot kept silent. Anything he could say would be too little. Or too much.

But she wasn’t smiling. She didn’t look as if she was enjoying this, and he remembered how delighted she had been when the dress arrived. He quickly looked at Sophie, one step behind her. The grifter was dressed, too, looking gorgeous as well, but her posture was stiff and controlled.

Something had happened up there, something bad.

Hardison stopped talking, and nothing could cover up his silence.

And Florence was looking at him now. Yep, something had changed; her eyes were unstrung, confused and stricken. Behind her, Sophie hugged herself, as if chilled.

“Not bad,” he said slowly, taking his time to take in every detail of her figure. “I have only one objection.”

“What?” whispered Florence.

“That wig. It’s awful. Take it off. As in now.”

She fell for it, her hand reflexively going to her hair, and then stopped in shocked silence. Then her eyes changed, and first one giggle, and then a real laugh burst out.

“You, you’re such…” She tried to control her laugh, but in vain. “You’re an idiot.”

“I know.” He grinned. Her eyes were warm again, and her voice more gentle than any time before when they'd been around the others.

Behind her, Sophie relaxed her arms, and a hint of a smile went over her face.

“Now, be a useful idiot, bring that pet carrier over here.”

“Yes, Ma’am.” He got up and brought it to the sofa. “Why?”

She went to pick up Orion, who was sitting on the working table and watching them all. Eliot tried not to stare at her too much. “I decided to put Orion in it while we’re gone. I don’t want you to get distracted by wondering whether George is safe or not.”

“What? No!” At the same time he said that, really upset, Orion jumped from her hands; the damn beast must’ve understood the nasty plan, because he jumped right into Eliot's arms. “They’ll be fine,” he grumbled, holding the cat. The only thing that would distract him would be her, anyway.

“Treason,” she huffed at the cat. “Oh, okay. But don’t say I didn’t offer - “

“Girls…” Nate’s soft voice stopped her. He did notice a sting but he didn’t deign to glare at him. “I’m going to the PVA. You can come later, no problem, when you settle your domestic disputes… but it would be really, _really_ useful if we go together.”

Nate’s smirk was maddening.

Eliot set Orion on the floor by George. “Behave,” he whispered firmly. They both nodded.

He grabbed his jacket and put it on. Hardison was already piling all the bags with clothes to bring them with him to Lucille.

“We can’t steal an Award that’s already won, am I right?” Parker said, taking her bag pack. “What shall we steal today?”

Nate opened the door and held it open for all of them to pass by him.

“Everything, Parker. Today, we shall steal every damn thing that we can. Move.”

 

*

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	61. Chapter 61

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anthony Hopkins seems to be the best choice for Don Lazzara :D
> 
> Movie trailer for The Season Six Job is in its first phase :D
> 
> This chapter is part one in three part PVA finale. Be patient, everything that's said and done in this one is important for the next.

 

Chapter 61

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***

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Hardison parked Lucille in front of the My-Tan DVD Entertainment, 695 Washington Street, closed for business. Metal blinds covered every window and the door to the street. The van blocked the door from the view of passers-by, but late afternoon with heavy rain wasn’t inviting for a walk. Pissed off drivers passing Lucille cursed because traffic was chaotic, with the new regulations.

A couple of hundred meters down the street, they all could see red and blue rotating lights, where traffic was being stopped and directed to the other routes, adding to the already crowded streets.

Florence tried to think only about keeping her dress away from dust and dirt. That was the safest thing she could do right now.

Parker went out into the rain and dusk to work on the lock. Nate and Eliot divided all the necessary clothes in smaller bags they would carry with them, and she wondered if there was enough time to change into something that would keep her warm. Nate set the heat on maximum and she was thankful for that, though she knew the chill that she felt wasn’t just because of the coldness. Her fingers were frozen. Her brain felt frozen as well.

Hardison was the first to interrupt silence. “I’ve sent all the plans, blueprints, escape routes, and everything useful to your phones.”

“You couldn’t get us closer to the Opera?” Eliot was in a growling mode; she couldn’t tell why.

“You can see it if you get out. It’s only four minutes’ walk from this point to there,” Hardison said. “But this is the only relatively safe point to enter the tunnels and corridors. Parker will open the door, and go down, and down, and let you in. Any other point of entrance, closer to the PVA, is also closer to the cops. Nate, are you sure it’s wise for me to stay here, and not go with you?”

“I’ll call you if needed. You have all your toys here, and you’re more useful with them for now.”

“When you’re in, I’ll circle around and try to find some place closer to stop, without raising suspicion,” Hardison sighed. “And you’re right… I’ll be busy hacking my way into their cameras, phones, everything, including toasters… once I’m done, I can work with them over my laptop or tablet, maybe even the phone, but I do need heavier equipment to hurry it up in the beginning. I just… nah. I don’t like it.”

Nobody said anything to reassure him. Florence knew that Hardison was the best to monitor shit-levels; his reactions were human and normal. All the rest of them were strange when danger was in question, they automatically fell into unreadable mode. Hardison never could. Now, he was typing faster than usual – one more tell she had noticed – and his face was set into something between worried frowning and a scowl. She wondered what her face was telling them. She couldn’t tell. Her face muscles were strangely numb and slow, as if they were late to react and move into the proper positions. She thought about smiling, and then felt her face slowly obeying. Too slow.

“You can go,” Parker’s voice in her earbud scattered her smile. “Follow the open door down the stairs.”

She couldn’t believe that was it. They simply climbed out with the bags, quickly moving the two steps through the rain to the door, expecting her to follow. She met Hardison’s eyes and stopped. He nodded and smiled; a hint of normality that reached to her frozen core.

“Be weird, geek girl,” he whispered. “They’ll do the rest.”

The breath caught in her throat escaped in a small sob, but she managed to smile.

He closed Lucille’s door behind her, and she hurried into the dark; she had to bend to go under the half-raised shutters.

This was surreal, she thought entering the smelly, dark space. She won a People’s Voice Award. It was the biggest thing in her life. She was on the top. She ought to celebrate tonight; to be happy.

She felt only dread, watching the darkness that crept around her.

One more door closed behind her and she swallowed a scream, cut off of any light, any sound.

“I’m here.” Eliot’s voice sounded close, and one pale ray of light danced on the floor. He put something around her shoulders, and only when he raised her arm to pull it into the sleeve she realized it was a jacket. “Hold your dress up a little, just a few centimeters off the floor – we don’t know how dusty or wet it will be,” he continued buttoning the jacket while he spoke. “It’s your FBI jacket, I took it from the bag. It’ll keep you warm. Will you start to function soon, or do we have to abort this?”

They were all listening to this, she reminded herself.

“I’m preparing my speech,” she said with effort. “No time for babbling.”

She saw his smile when his flashlight turned to the wall, showing her the next door, the one Sophie and Nate already went through. He knew. He always knew.

A merciless and ruthless killer, Sophie’s words echoed through her head for a second. Who had just tucked her into a jacket, knowing she was freezing. Who took her hand and kissed her frozen fingers, before he pulled her after him.

His hand was warm. She held it tighter, and followed him into the darkness.

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***

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“Four minutes? _Four_ , Hardison? Really?!”

“Not my fault you took five wrong turns and-”

Eliot tuned out his babbling, and continued to dust off his pants and shoes. After _nineteen_ minutes of tiresome and dirty passages, with multiple wrong turns and going back, they finally found the staircase that would lead them up.

They were in a basement of some sort. Cleaner than the rest, but deserted and full of old furniture. Parker, again, went up the ladder to open the doors for them, and to find out where they were.

He watched Sophie and Florence, busy with checking their outfits, both strangely silent. The silence, down here, was deep, and he tried to control his own breathing; it sounded through the darkness, too fast, too irregular.

“I’ve left five markers on the correct route,” Nate said. “One of them half a meter above the water level. Hardison, when you come after us, check that level, see how fast the water rises.”

“Got it,” Hardison replied shortly. “I’m halfway there – very soon I’ll be able to get into their broadcasting channels.”

“Good, continue.” Nate nodded.

One of Hardison’s passages had led them down, too low, and they almost splashed into the water whirling in the passage. Worse than that, Nate had almost dove nose first, unable to stop, bumping into Florence who was beside him at the moment. Eliot managed to stop them both from washing their clothes in the muddy flood, but Florence’s phone was smacked out of her hand. She had been silent until then, but the dam broke while she watched the phone sailing away. They all knew, now, every cliché connected to losing a phone in ruins, losing a phone in danger, losing a phone that meant her life would depend on having a phone in a crucial moment, until Nate stopped her by pushing his own phone in her hands.

The next five minutes were filled with murmuring about somebody else giving a phone to somebody, which meant that the first somebody would need it and wouldn’t have it, until Eliot lost the count of the somebodies and stopped listening.

Yet, her talking was a good sign, she was getting it together. Her frozen silence was too similar to her shutting down in shell shock after the sniper. They needed her functioning, not a lifeless zombie.

His own functioning was, for now, better than expected. This short wait was enough to slowing his breathing back to normal. If he managed to steal short rests after everything he did, he might preserve some strength for longer than he expected. Even the fever wasn’t bothering him too much, kept under control with a heavy dose of pills, as if last night’s attack was the highest peak.

“The final number of armored Dvorak Security vehicles surrounding the block is seven,” Hardison reported. “Sending you the positions. By the way, do you want me to bring another phone when I join you?”

“Sure, do that,” Nate said, smiling at Florence. “All our problems will be solved. Now, try to find out how many of Dvorak Security will be on the floor with the FBI and Secret Service HQ – we can’t know how many of them saw our faces. We’ll need to avoid them all.”

“On it.”

Parker slid down the metal ladder that led to the upper level. “We are under the laundry room of the Paramount Building where the cocktail party takes place – the Opera House where the ceremony will be held is leaning on it. The laundry room is empty now, and closed. I opened the door. A machinery compartment and auxiliary engine room is on the same level – there will be people. Maybe even security.”

“Okay, Parker – you’re on your own now. You know what to do, don’t wait for us.”

The thief grinned, fastening her backpack, and went up again.

“I don’t know what she has to do,” Florence murmured.

“You’re not the only one,” Sophie smiled, taking her jacket off. “Let’s go up. That laundry will be a perfect gathering spot, and our bags and clothes will be safe there.”

Eliot went first; he had to stick the tablet in his pants to free his hands. Climbing up was gruesome, with only one hand, but the painkillers held. The worst thing was that he knew that Nate took in his every move, watching his slow progress, studying his posture and speed. He held back the anger, not letting himself hurry up. Not even when his tablet started pinging.

“What are you doing with your tablet?” Hardison said. “I have dozens of tabs jumping up – are you keeping something pressed? Eliot?”

He gritted his teeth, pulling himself into the upper room. “Not now, Hardison.” His growl was breathless, but Hardison didn’t notice that.

“Damn right it’s now – stop whatever you’re doing and kill those tabs before-”

He went to the door that Parker left open one inch – he could see light in the hall. He took the tablet and turned it off; that should kill all the stupid tabs. “Okay, you can come up. Be quiet. Hardison, are you trying to say you have my tablet cloned, and you can see everything-”

“Mirrored, not cloned, but yeah. I don’t trust you. You might think the most efficient way to solve the quarrel the Supernatural fandom would be to make them all jump off a cliff, like deranged lemmings. You’re fandom-deadly.”

“Do you know how many less voters would- never mind,” he sighed. “So, you can see what I'm doing?”

The silence on the other end lasted a few seconds. “Yeah,” Hardison said softly. “Yes, I can see it.”

“I don’t know what you are doing,” Florence whispered from the lower room.

“Join the club,” this time Nate said that. He was up by then, helping Sophie with the last meter. Florence followed just a few seconds after her. Nate carefully dusted off the skirt of Florence’s dress. “You know, sometimes it's crucial to let your people do things on their own,” he said lightly. “Trusting that they’ll do the right thing. Because you know they will tell you what you need to know exactly when you need to know it. Not before.”

“How convenient,” she smiled, but didn’t press further.

Sophie went to the small cupboards near the door, using Nate’s flashlight. After some clanging she returned to them. “The spare key for the facility,” she said. “They always keep one inside, just in case. I’ll put it somewhere in the corridor when we get out and lock the door after us, so anyone who has to come back for things will know where it is.”

“Take all your IDs, badges and passes from the bags,” Nate continued. “You two have purses: enough space for everything?”

“A woman’s purse is always bigger on the inside, Nate.” Sophie held up a tiny black thing; she had a dark green one for Florence, too. “You wouldn’t believe what I have in here.”

“As I said, I’m quite good at knowing things when, and _if_ , I need to know them. Are you ready? Hardison, directions.”

“Above your heads is the ground level of the Paramount. The cocktail party is on the first floor. The ground level will already be full of people arriving. The official Red Carpet is being held in the Opera lobby, the building next door, but you ain’t going there for now, sorry Florence. The buildings are connected – use the mess. With a little luck, you’ll be able to join the cocktail party unnoticed.”

“Nope – we will use their agents to escort us and deliver us at the party, and confirm us as legitimate guests.” Nate took one last look at the laundry room, checking all the bags and positions. “Okay, Eliot, get us through the machinery compartment and security, to the upper level with the guests.”

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***

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He buttoned up his jacket to hide the vest, and pulled a white curly cord from his pocket. Nate had the same in this pocket; Secret Service, totally unobtrusive communication set. He set one end into his ear and went into the main corridor.

He'd only taken steps when two technicians came out of one of the many open doors.

“You two – have you seen two women and one man, dressed up? I’ve lost three guests.”

“No, no guests down here.”

“You all have your emergency numbers to call Security if something happens?”

“Yes, your people gave us all-”

“Okay, I’m talking with another headquarters right now, can’t switch channels – you call them now and tell them exactly this: Your location first, your names and ID numbers second, then say that the three lost guests haven’t been seen here. Okay?”

He waited until they nodded and pulled out their phones, poking at numbers, and continued down the hall to the elevators and stairs. When they couldn’t see him anymore, he stopped.

“Okay, Nate, wait until they make the call, put on your VIP passes, and go out to meet them.”

He waited more, listening to Sophie who almost bumped into the technicians, pouring her Oxford accent over them. “Heavens, we thought we’re lost. Can you tell us how to get to-”

“Wait, Ma’am, I’ll call the agents, just a sec… Hey, I called you just a minute ago – they are here after all, we just met them. Send someone to collect them. Yeah, same place.”

Eliot counted the seconds, more of an old habit than a need; the Secret Service agents' response time couldn’t be exactly measured because he didn’t know where their starting point was. But, it took less than two minutes until he heard them coming down the stairs. He knew they wouldn’t use the elevator.

He hurried up to meet them. Two guys in almost identical buttoned suit. Their name tags said Smith and… Smith. Putting them together was probably some kind of internal joke in their unit.

“Not here, I asked the technicians,” he said quickly.

“They called again. Who the hell lost those three at all?” The first Smith that spoke seemed too unnerved for this trivial problem; the other one said nothing, but he was scowling.

“Don’t ask me,” he sighed, with a troubled voice, joining them back to the corridor. “This mess ain’t good.”

“Tell me about it. I swear, this was the first time in seven years I saw Goodwin taking a fifth cup of coffee, and when your senior agent is distressed, it’s- Hello, ladies, and gentleman,” his voice changed when they took a turn and met Nate, Sophie, and Florence with the technicians, Sophie still gesticulating. “Sorry for your troubles, we are here to guide you back to the main event. Will you be so kind as to join us?” It didn't matter that they were inside, which meant they already passed all the checks and scans, the first agent took a long look at their IDs. Smiling all the way.

“Thank you, dear sir,” Sophie cooed and took his arm before he could pull out his scanner for a real check. “This place is a labyrinth.”

“I told you that man told us ‘down the hall _to_ the stairs’, and not just ‘down the stairs’,” Nate’s murmur added to Sophie’s indignation; she turned her back on him and the agent led her.

“This way, ma’am.”

The Smiling Smith led his lost sheep, and Eliot joined the Scowling Smith at the rear. They exchanged scowls, sharing the same level of annoyance, and followed the small group upstairs.

They passed the ground floor and lobby with check points guided by their Smiths, so nobody even looked at them twice, and continued to the first floor to the cocktail party. Eliot suspected the party was just Security’s way of keeping all the guests in one place, surrounded and guarded, and not some fancy custom. In some way, the mass of important people at this place outweighed the important people at any UN conference. With one difference, he added as an afterthought; UN delegates were normal people. Hundreds of stars gathered here was a nightmare, even without a terrorist threat.

The stairs took them into the broad corridor with many doors; judging by the size, the doors led into big halls or studios. All except one. In the middle of the corridor, one wall and door were missing completely, and they could see the enormous dance hall.

He scanned the people around them the same way the other agent did, just for different reasons.

“That’s the cocktail party you were looking for,” the first agent directed the three of them towards the hall. Hardison’s chuckle in his ear was followed by a whisper, “Did he slowly wave his hand?” He rolled his eyes and quickly stepped closer to them, nodding to the other agents.

“Just go in there, let me help you, ma’am, yes, this way.” He made a few gentle pushing motions, herding the reluctant trio in front of him, waving his head to Smiths. _Just go, I’ll do this_.

They didn’t wait a second; they turned around, leaving him alone with the annoying guests.

“Parker, in position?” Nate asked as they walked.

“Walking behind the stage of the main ceremony, in the Opera House. This is _huge_. In a minute.”

“Okay, keep me-”

They had just passed the arched opening when Nate stopped talking. At the same time, buzzing in their ears made all four of them flinch.

All their earbuds died.

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***

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The sudden silence stopped Parker mid-step; she put a smile on her face, and held tighter an empty box she was carrying around. A technician, dressed in the same dark blue coveralls, beamed at her as he passed; she frowned to chase him away.

“Hardison, what’s going on? I just lost them all, no sound in the earbud…”

“I’m checking everything.” She sighed in relief when he answered immediately. “Call their phones, all of them, while I work on the earbuds… though I think I know what happened.”

She quickly pressed buttons, making call after call, while going across the stage that glowed electric blue and silver. Many people were still working on the final details, and she knew that no one would stop her while she looked busy with her phone.

“Nothing. Out of service.”

“That’s what I was afraid of. Damn threat.”

“What?!”

“Or maybe it isn’t just because of the terrorists, that’s a good way to keep spies away. You know how much money you can get for first hand pictures of a cocktail party, where any pictures or recordings are forbidden, unless authorized, or- never mind… long story short, they simply jammed all electronic devices. No microphones, no phones, no cameras, only security – and when I say security, I mean agents, police, our Dvorak friends, FBI…”

“What does that have to do with the threat? And how are you going to solve it?”

“They're scared – they don’t know there’s no bomb – and this way they are preventing any remote detonation. If the bomb is hidden somewhere at the cocktail party, it can’t be detonated with a phone or any similar device. Now, when you finish what you’re doing, you’ll help me – after I find a way to make their earbuds work again – you’ll go around, and we’ll mark all the spots that have jammers.”

All the lights in the golden red opera hall flashed for a moment, blinding her, and she had to close her eyes for a moment. “All set,” she heard a yell from the stage, and the lights, one after another, turned off, darkening the huge hall until first the ceiling painted with murals, then the balconies and gallery, disappeared in the darkness. Only the stage glimmered with lights. She looked up, into the now almost impenetrable black, and smiled. “Change of plans,” she said. “While you work on the earbuds, I’ll go up to the ceiling first, and then to the tables where the guests will be when ceremony starts.”

“Do that. And now excuse me, I have to think about how to override something I can’t hack.”

She just smiled at his whining tone – she could hear his brain already fuming inside at full speed, like always when he enjoyed the challenge.

She put the box in a dark corner, and looked up, at the darkness full of barely visible beams, cables, platforms and metal things that shone palely in the bluish light from the stage.

She had her own labyrinth to enjoy.

.

.

.

***

.

Florence couldn’t help but welcome that silence in her ear, in spite of her fear and Nate’s almost visible worry. She was with Sophie, Eliot always ten steps away, monitoring their surroundings and people approaching them, and Nate held himself in the background.

Chatter all around; light giggles, sounds of crystal glasses, and quiet background music wrapped around her. Men in tuxedos, women in shiny dresses, sparkles of jewelry and white teeth behind the smiles, bits of polite conversations… everything slowed down, and her heartbeat followed.

They circulated through the guests, giving Eliot opportunity to go through the entire hall and see every potential problem. There were none, as far as she could see, and she began relaxing a little.

They all knew this action wouldn’t be a smash and grab – they had to follow a slow, maddening rhythm and procedure, going along with each step. First, the cocktail party for the VIPs and nominees, then the beginning of the ceremony and moving to the Opera Hall, followed by a long, probably boring program, and the giving of many awards. All live on TV.

She psyched herself up for that. For everything that might come.

Though, this hall gave her a headache. All the walls except one were covered with huge mirrors, spreading the place into the distance. When in the middle of it, she was surrounded by people, but every time they went near the walls the feeling was dizzy, as if another hall was opening right before her.

“Whoever made this,” she whispered to Sophie at one moment, “has a degree in psychology, not in interior design.” She pointed, subtly, to the group of several reality show stars who took every chance to glance at their reflections – because the mirrors weren’t only on the walls, they covered the columns, scattered all over the place. Flowers and live plants were arranged at the base of every column, but only up to knee height, so the guests could observe themselves in full glory.

The only wall that didn’t have mirrors was covered in dark blue velvet, sprinkled with small sponsors' logos, and that part of the hall was separated from the rest of it with food tables and long bars with drinks. Four TV crews were busy with interviews and promotional shots. She noticed that nobody else had a phone or a camera.

While she was watching the TV crews, Eliot obviously studied them as well. “They have two cameras turned toward the hall,” he said, “one on each end of the velvet wall. We shouldn’t let them record us.”

“Don’t worry about them, it’s just a standard procedure,” she quickly said. “They are making an overall recording of the event, for later use. They will probably use thirty seconds of it to put it in the background of reports about the PVA, and they'll use the parts with some big star. No chance that any of us will be put on air, unless we're caught passing behind Brad Pitt while he smiles. Just avoid all familiar faces, all of you, and we’ll be fine.”

She wasn’t in danger of being asked for an interview with all the big stars around – wait, no, she _was_. She remembered she was in the spotlight now, because of the accusing article about her campaign… if they noticed her, she wouldn’t be able to avoid attention. The best she could do, for now, was to avoid that part for the rest of the evening, and sneak away when it came time for the ceremony.

She had no idea what time it was, her phone – Nate’s phone, her was swimming to the ocean - was dead too. She probably had more than an hour to play hide and seek. Too many people knew her here, and there was no place to hide and avoid them all.

Only Sophie witnessed the first ten greetings, every single one including a question about Jethro and his absence. Florence kept a smile on her face, answering mechanically. After fifteen minutes she counted that all the people who were close enough to ask her that, had already exchanged pleasantries with her and her BBC friend, and that she could breathe now.

Their questions stirred her pain deeply; she wanted him to be here, to share this award with him – but not all of this, all the danger. She did miss him, and every question reminded her of that. The bubble in which she’d been living for the past few days had collided with the real world tonight, becoming translucent. She could see through it, remember the outer world. Remember her life, real life, not this strange episode that had sucked her in.

But at the same time, she was constantly aware of the silent presence behind her – she knew where Eliot was, she didn’t have to look for him. Not once did she catch herself using those damn mirrors to glance at him, catching his face, or only a profile, just because not seeing him more than five minutes was almost painful.

She couldn’t recognize this, this… creature… she was turning into, and that scared her the most. She loathed herself, her weakness and confusion.

She needed something to drink. Badly. The light green cocktail that Sophie chose for her because of her green dress didn’t have nearly enough alcohol in it.

Sophie discretely mentioned nothing while they circled around and smiled, but Florence noticed how she always kept herself between Eliot and people talking to them and asking about Jethro, blocking his eyesight. He could read their questions, he didn’t have to hear them, she remembered.

The eleventh question she answered with gritted teeth, replying the same answer like a mantra, taking Sophie quickly away.

But twelfth one they couldn’t avoid – it was Jules Brewer.

“Dear Mrs. McCoy,” he greeted her with a genuine smile, while she stood frozen, quickly going through all the meetings with him, not able to remember if he knew Sophie as someone else or not. No, she recalled finally, only Nate had talked to him as Inspector Webster – he didn’t meet Sophie at all. Brewer took her silence and smile as a good sign, obviously, because his face relaxed and his smile broadened. “I hope that this little dispute over one show won’t hinder us possibly working together again in the future – after all, our house is always open for new pilots.”

She felt a warning hand on her upper arm, but Sophie didn’t have to warn her. “But of course, Mr. Brewer,” she chirped. “It’s only business, I understand. May I introduce you to Miss Alison Hastings?”

“I’m delighted.” He put a kiss on Sophie’s hand. “And how is it that two enchanting ladies are here alone? Where’s your husband?”

“Still in New Zealand, working. He couldn’t take a few days off, they are now in a very sensitive phase of the project,” she recited her speech.

“Yes, I’ve heard that Peter is behind with dates, and post production is going slower than it should. How many months before a premiere?”

“They are not sure, unfortunately. They are working sixteen hours a day to finish-”

“Peter?!” Hardison’s voice yelled in her ear, and after the long silence from their earbuds even Sophie twitched. “Premiere? You mean Peter as in Peter Jackson?! Jethro is working on The Hobbit and you. Didn’t. Tell. Me!!”

She opened her mouth. Then closed it. Brewer looked at her, waiting.

“Oh, excuse us, I see a friend,” Sophie jumped in, taking her hand again. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Brewer,” she darted a smile at him and led her away.

“Hardison?” Nate was already talking. “What happened with the earbuds? Why-”

“They are working now, okay? Florence, answer me.”

“He works in post production, he is an editor. You didn’t ask, and yes, it’s The Hobbit. So what?”

“So what??!” Hardison voice hit the ceiling and she squinted. “Do you know we have spies there, trying to get any info, in vain, they are even digging in the garbage cans… and you have a man inside the team, _inside!_ He is actually watching, _touchin_ g the Hobbit footage! I can’t believe-”

“Hardison, focus. Earbuds. Phones.” This time, Nate’s voice hit the basement, pissed off. She squinted again.

The hacker vented one tortured sigh. “We shall talk. Okay, earbuds, phones - they jammed everything to stop paparazzi, and the eventual remote detonation of a nonexistent bomb. It took me some time, as you can see, but I solved it. I found the frequency that Security – all of them – is using, and I encrypted our signal and put it into their frequency. We are riding the FBI, baby! They can hear it, it’s inevitable, but to them, it’s just a barely audible static in the background. By the way, do you know how many people are able to do that in twenty minutes? In the whole world?”

“None?”

“Damn right. And now, the important part. Parker changed a few things in the plan while you were offline. Parker?”

“Not much,” the thief jumped in with a quiet whisper. “I went up first – I put one bug above Don Lazzara’s table – one of Hardison’s focused ones. It’s a huge distance, but no one will be able to find it. The tables are next, it will take some time.”

“Good job, Parker. No need to hurry, we have enough time.”

“Hardison,” Eliot said, “My tablet ain’t working. And I can’t get online with my phone.”

“Yeah, internet addiction is a nasty thing – once it hits you, you’re done. I should’ve warned you about that.”

“Hardison.” This time, the growled warning was clear in his voice.

“Can’t help you right now, I’m working on five different, more important things.”

“Do you want that damn Supernatural fandom to stop killing themselves or-”

“Eliot,” Florence quickly said. “You won’t tell me what you are doing?”

A pause. “No. It might not work.”

“Hardison,” she went on. “Would I like it, working or not?”

“You will love him for trying, that’s for sure, he might- ouch, wait, I didn’t mean to say that… I mean, you _will_ love him, but, but… in a totally, erm, non-sexual way… damn. Did I just say that? What I _really_ meant to say was-”

“Hardison,” Eliot’s low growl stopped both Hardison and the grin on her face, a grin she couldn’t erase even if she tried.

“Yes, yes, connection problems, I got it, I’m working on it, just be patient, okay? But you can simply go outside the hall, they wouldn’t block the entire building.”

“I'll go.” It was clear in Eliot’s voice that he hesitated, and Florence had to stop the involuntary turn of her head towards him. It was awkward to hear people without looking at them. “Nate,” Eliot continued after a few moments. “Something ain’t right here. Too few Dvorak Security. I saw only three dark green uniforms at the party… there ought to be dozens of them swarming the place.”

“Spread around, covering all buildings?” Nate asked. “As far as they know, we haven’t arrived yet, we didn’t pass the check points. Don Lazzara spread this terrorist threat rumor to catch us entering, remember?”

“I know. But I have to check. Stay together and stay near agents if you see anything suspicious.”

She did turn around to watch him leave. She couldn’t say anything, but she felt if only all of them stayed here, in this crowd, they would be safe, and the PVA would end without any crisis. Nobody could do anything to them _here_. But he didn’t catch her thoughts, though she sent them after him with all her strength. He left the party, disappeared in the hall.

Sophie followed him with her eyes, too, studying his steps, his speed, everything.

Florence didn’t ask about her conclusions, though. She didn’t have to. He was very good at pretending, but not nearly good enough for her. She almost smiled; she had become an expert in his body language.

And the party continued to roll. They rolled with it, smiling, talking, walking, while time passed, and her inner clock, counting the minutes, continued to speed up.

She watched the first of her crew arriving; she ought to go to them, but Brewer was faster. _It was only business, right_. Their faces showed fake, polite smiles.

“Nate,” she said. “Tell me what you prepared for Brewer.”

“Nothing.”

Impossible. His reply actually contained _information_. “What do you mean, nothing?”

“You said he was nice, and warned me not to go too rough on him – and he _is_ nice, you were right. He is just a lousy director who dances how his board of directors dictate, and he will pay for it… but not too much.”

Florence felt Sophie’s eyes on her face, but she didn’t pretend to smile, didn’t try to hide all the questions reeling in her head. What was this season six part of the job about, if he didn’t plan to do anything for Brewer? She knew that, if she turned to look at Nate, she would meet the same unreadable face and guarded eyes, like every time she broached that subject before.

Maybe she should say goodbye to her show, here, in the moment of triumph. The Magnificent Seven would have its swan song, the PVA award, and go into the past with honor. Nate had done everything he could, they all had – and all was in vain. She shouldn’t ask for more.

All she wanted, now, was that all of them live through this. Only that was important.

She hoped that Nate was concentrating on _that_.

.

.

.

***

.

It wasn’t just because of Dvorak Security.

Eliot left the party, joining the groups of guests who were entering, leaving, standing, circulating even in the corridor, driving Security nuts. He erased himself completely, melting into the walls just like a real Secret Service agent would. They all had the same low frequency when doing their jobs and he learned a long time ago how to hit it perfectly. How to catch their rhythm of movement, slow eye blinks, scanning everything and being invisible. He vibrated the same as they did, and they could recognize that, feel it without thinking about it.

When no one important could see him, he opened his jacket, pulled the sleeves up a little, freed his hair and loosened his tie. And changed the frequency of his body as he changed his ID badge. It was enough. He was a guest now.

The Two Smiths passed near him, not giving him a second glance.

As an agent, he couldn’t pull out his tablet and work on it. More importantly, he couldn’t _sit_.

The past fifteen minutes of slow walking and mingling through perfumed air reminded him painfully that he had been standing too long. Four minutes through the tunnels that turned out to be almost twenty, ladders, stairs, and standing at the party – it was already too much, he was feeling dizzy.

He went down to the ground level and found one empty chair, near a group of guests; it seemed that he was one of them, just busy with his fans on Twitter or whatever. On his right side, one entire line of reporters in front of the People’s Voice Award logo were recording their statements, their voices in many languages melting into constant noise; Helmut Klein for ORT2 reporting from the PVA; Andrija Jarak for HRT1 reporting from the PVA; Ho Xian for CET2 reporting from… over and over again.

But no dark green jackets of Dvorak Security.

He saw only two of them, near the entrance with metal detectors, and he wondered if any of them was one of the five he put to sleep and left in the woods to find their way back to Knudsen. They didn’t look familiar, though he went through all the Dvo-Sec employee lists to see who were the Red and Green Guards, regular security, or part of the mob.

He replied to a few comments, trying to calculate the time he had for that Supernatural crap. Not much.

“While you’re down there, can you put a few cameras all around?” Hardison asked. That reminded him he was monitoring his tablet. Yet, his posts couldn’t tell the hacker whether he was on the first floor, or in the lobby.

“You put a tracking device on me?!”

“A few…” came the cautious reply. “On all of you, as a matter of fact. Purses and wallets. And, ekhm, a few more places.”

“And when were you about to tell us that? Before we go through metal detectors not knowing we’re bugged, or after we’re arrested?!”

“You wouldn’t go through the detectors, you have your knives on. I sense a strange aura of hostility in your voice. What’s up with the inner Feng Shui?

“Just shut up,” he growled, typing again. Hardison’s virtual peeking over his shoulder was making him even more nervous.

“So, cameras? Have any?”

“Four – more in the bags in the laundry room. I would have more with me if Sophie didn’t insist on these stupid pants which-”

“Oh, stop whining!” Sophie’s clear voice rose in their ears. “No, not you, dear, yes, give me that glass, thank you…” her voice calmed again and melted into quiet chatter with someone whose voice was strangely familiar. Only when the man laughed at her joke, did he recognize Buck. Florence’s crew had arrived.

“Don’t bite him back,” he murmured, then tuned them all out, concentrating on his post. It took five minutes – but he was sitting and resting, so that time wasn’t for naught – until he was satisfied with the final version.

He posted it. And that was it.

Hardison was silent. He knew he was reading it.

“So?” he growled after a minute.

“So…” Hardison said, clearing his throat.

“So?!” Nate trailed in, with an impatient note in his voice.

“Well…” Hardison said.

“Well?!” He tried to sound normal, but judging by the glances his voice attracted, he was extremely lousy with that.

“If this works… and it might… well…”

“You two, get it together,” Nate cut off Hardison’s slight stuttering. “Eliot, get back, the organizers sent someone to collect Florence and take her to the sound rehearsal. She can’t go alone-”

“But I can,” Florence said. “He said it’s one floor above us, where all the studios and control rooms are, there’ll be no dang-”

“Stay there, I’m coming up.”

“But the man is wait-”

“Tell him you need five more minutes, waiting for your body guard – or I will tell him that. Choose.”

“Okay,” she sighed.

He turned the tablet off, sticking the damn thing by his belt again – the stupid silk vest covered it, so it wasn’t completely useless. When he stood up, carefully, the dizziness was gone. For now. He was ready for more walking. He was aware, though, that these intervals would be shorter and shorter as time passed. After every tiresome thing – and unfortunately, going upstairs counted - he would need longer and longer rests. He knew that sequence spiraled downward very fast. And time was passing too fast. The ceremony would soon start, and they would all go to the main stage at the Opera House, and everything would speed up even more.

Hostesses were on every step, so he snatched a glass of something and continued checking the ground floor, trying to get rid of the unease. He passed the entire huge lobby, up to the outermost back parts, with closed doors and passages that led to the back buildings – all empty, evacuated and dark. No sign of dark green uniforms. Maybe they were all in the Opera House already, who knew why… His worry jumped a level, heading for fear.

They were in the most dangerous phase of every job – the beginning, when all went seemingly well. They all knew how to dismiss that false security, he could feel the tension and keen concentration in their voices. Locked and loaded, but they masked it with easy smiles and calm features.

His worries were deeper than theirs, though, and he didn’t try to trick himself into thinking that this was normal. Nothing was normal here, so he listened, very carefully, to the quiet ringing of the alarms at the back of his head, telling him that something was wrong here.

A deep breath before the plunge.

He didn’t dare ask himself how much air he had for that.

.

.

.

***

.

“You, little one!” Parker turned around when a voice called out behind her. One of the technicians was waving down at her from the stage. “Go back and bring me a four wheel lead pipe cutter from the red box, and hurry!”

She waved back and hurried, walking between the oval tables covered in a light blue silk. The first six rows of the Opera House main hall were filled with VIP tables, and hostesses were adding the last flower arrangements around the strange tech-y looking things in the middle of every table. She took pictures with her phone, from a few different angles. “Hardison, I’m sending you something – every table has one, and it’s not only on the table, it goes through it… wait.” Parker dived head first under one table. The blue tablecloth glowed even more blue from her phone light when she pointed it up. Black pipes, and wires. Many wires.

“Nate, this place is full of pipes. They even go all across the ceiling, I almost broke a few while climbing on the beams and platforms.”

“Water performance, whatever it might be,” Nate said. “Hardison mentioned some famous French artist guy.”

“And whatever this might be – I’m looking at your pictures, Parker – it has five little cameras on it. Hence the wires,” Hardison said. “Have no clue why, though. _Five_ cameras on every table? They also have a laser measuring system in the middle, but I can’t tell much more unless you bring me one of them. Can you?”

“Can’t,” she huffed. “They would notice. No way- can I help you?!” her voice rose when one side of the tablecloth lifted and a hostess in an electric blue dress peered at her. “I’m working with wires, lady! Wires! Back off!”

The girl squeaked and disappeared.

She sighed. “Nate, the technicians are finishing their work here, pretty soon they’ll clear out and start letting the audience in. But hostesses will be here whole time. I would be invisible as one of them.”

“I see,” Nate said. “Eliot… how long it would take you to get one of the hostesses out of her dress?”

“ _What_?!” Parker squinted when Eliot’s growl made the pipe above her head start to vibrate.

“Kidding, relax,” Nate’s smirk was clear in her ear. “Parker will be faster – they must have a changing place with many dresses. Parker, go.”

“Good to see you’re having a good time,” Eliot grumbled.

“Why shouldn’t I? I’m looking directly at Kim Basinger.”

“Eeuw, dude, she’s old,” Hardison said. “She’s almost sixty.”

Sophie’s slowly vented a sigh, without a word, but perfectly clear and timed directly into a second of silence, made Nate clear his throat.

Eliot’s _idiots_ , and Florence’s quiet chuckle trailed into different background noises from their earbuds.

Parker grinned, and went to steal a dress.

.

.

.

***

.

“I don’t have my speech,” Florence said to Eliot’s back while they were going through the corridor to the stairs to upper floor, avoiding reporters and anyone who would look at her twice. He was walking one step in front of her, she hid behind him, keeping her head low.

Their luck held for now – Robert Downey Jr. occupied everyone’s attention with his arrival, and Eliot used that distraction to take her through the dangerous spots faster.

“Every time I tried to get past _Good evening, ladies and gentleme._ – if you look at it critically it's utterly stupid and boring for a beginning, where's the hook in it? _–_ someone interrupted, or asked something, or all of you would start talking and distracting me, and I'm despairing right now – are you listening at all?”

Of course he listened. With growing terror, he realized that he was in the phase where he would listen to her even if she produced loud quacks. A few more hours, and this madness would stop, he repeated inwardly.

Only when she hastened her steps and hurried ahead of him, did he realize he forgot to answer her question. She stopped in front of him. “Are you okay?” Her eyes were wide and worried. “Are we walking too fast?”

He glanced around them; they were just a few steps from the stairs. Too many people around. The four agents lined up by the wall only fifteen meters away were _not_ distracted by Downey.

“Keep walking, Mrs. McCoy,” he said.

His official tone reminded her of their roles and she let him pass by her and open the door to the staircase. Everybody else used the elevators, but he couldn’t risk getting trapped and attacked in one while she was with him. Any fight in so small a space would be dangerous to anyone near.

He closed the door behind them, and put a camera in the upper left corner, by the fire alarm.

When he turned around he found her studying him, her gaze, mild and serious, searching his face. She was unsettlingly beautiful. But she wasn’t smiling.

“I was thinking,” she started carefully. “When we finish with this, can we immediately return to the cocktail party and _stay_ there? Without separating again?”

“Dividing the group at a cocktail party is also a cliché, and somebody will get killed?” He was joking, of course, but her face froze and he regretted it. “Look, forget about clichés,” he continued, softer. “I know you think we will all be safe there, but we simply won’t be. There isn’t a safe place now for us… and the more we divide the group, trust me, our chances go up. Dividing us means doing useful things that will solve this for good.”

“And you will go again, and maybe do something?”

“Of course.”

“You promised me, remember… wherever you are, whatever happens, you’ll come back to me”– he quickly tapped his ear to remind her that they weren’t alone, and she nodded –“… come back to us. Keep that in mind, okay?” An unhappy smile flickered on her lips and he sighed.

Before he could say anything, the clicking of high heels, followed by giggles, started climbing down the stairs. She shrugged and let him go first, silently following him one step behind. _Silently_?

He waited until the two hostesses passed them, and until they stopped before the door to the second floor. “Give me your earbud, you can’t have it at the sound rehearsal. If anything happens, Nate’s phone will work up here, call immediately.” He waited until she took it out, then continued. “So,” he said lightly, removing his earbud as well, “which shoes did you choose?”

A pink hue instantly flashed across her golden skin, she looked down, to the skirt of her dress that spread around her. “It seems it wasn’t important, after all,” she murmured. She didn’t quite meet his eyes. “No way can anybody see them at all, the skirt is dragging the floor.”

“Can I see them?” he went on, evenly.

“No?”

He crossed his arms and waited.

She regarded her fingernails for a moment, then muttered something under her breath, quickly pushing one foot from under the skirt. No Cinderella slippers. She wore her old black sneakers. “How did you know?” she huffed.

“No clicking heels. Took me too long. Why did we have to go for your shoes then?”

She was still blushing. “I tried them all, but… They are invisible. I had no idea what awaited us. Do you _really_ want a list of clichés connected to blondes running in high heels while chased by killers?”

“I rest my case.” He turned around and opened the door, going first again, putting his earbud back in. They entered a broad corridor with many doors on both sides.

“Don’t tell Sophie,” she whispered before a busy looking lady guided them to the small sound studio.

He checked everything – no back doors in the studio, no windows, just one entrance – and left her to do her job, guarding the door.

He listened to the other members of the team; Parker was mainly silent, except a quiet humming from time to time. Hardison’s typing was a calming, familiar sound, constantly in the background. Nate and Sophie were surrounded by a pretty loud chatter, but they weren’t talking for now, probably just observing everything.

The corridor he was in was busy too, but still no Dvorak Security in sight. Different stars were taken in by agents and ceremony personnel, and directed to several small studios for rehearsals, and many people with papers, probably coordinators, ran to and fro. Organizing this event must’ve been a nightmare even without the terrorism threat.

He saw Chris and Vin from M7 – he couldn’t remember the actors’ names - and took his tablet out. Half pissed off at himself, he took a few pictures while they talked with another coordinator and posted them immediately in the M7 Vote and Promote Group. He knew how eagerly they were watching, waiting to see whether their voting made a difference or not. He was really tempted to tell them they won.

Hardison’s typing changed rhythm, and the hacker made a sound like a sip of his orange brew made a wrong turn.

“Stop spying on me.”

“It’s not spying, it’s supervision – and god knows you need that. Get back to the Supernatural group while you’re online, things are… moving. You’ll need to be present from time to time, just in case.”

“Since your nose is deep in this, jump in when you have time. Not sure how busy I will be soon, and there’s no connection at the cocktail party.”

“On it.”

He hoped the waiting wouldn’t last too long – as a Secret Service agent, with his cord in his ear again, he had to stand, and leaning with his back on the wall was the only rest he could allow himself. Yet, this time Florence wasn’t connected to them, couldn’t hear them talking. A rare opportunity he had to use.

“Nate, she can’t hear us now,” he said, keeping his eye on the studio door. “Are you sure not telling her anything is still a good choice? I can’t tell how she will react to that Siren’s Song crap – and that can be dangerous.”

The silence lasted for a few seconds; he listened to the background noises fading as Nate moved away from people. Just then Nate spoke. “Maybe dangerous for us, but not for her, and that’s the important part. This can fail spectacularly, we can end up dead or arrested. If they arrest her, she won’t know anything. As far as she can tell investigators, her neighbors came with her to help her with a mob threat: that part is documented, attacks have been reported. She’s not good at lying, and they will know she’s telling the truth when she says she didn’t know what we were going to do. To them, she will be just a naïve fool who was used and kept in the dark. They won’t bother her after that.”

“Is she? Used and kept in the dark?”

A pause. “Time will tell, Eliot.”

“What time do you think we have?”

“Time to fail spectacularly,” Hardison said quietly. “Nate, things ain’t going good.”

“Continue as if everything’s okay, until I say to stop. For now, we are just waiting. Eliot, is your pitchfork admin coming with the M7 fans to show support for the show?”

“Yeah, I’m arranging the final details with her – though they won’t be able to do anything besides to come and show themselves. She’s bringing about one hundred red shirts.”

They all heard Hardison dropping something in Lucille. “Hey, don’t say that!” the hacker hissed. “We don’t need any red shirts on this mission… call them crimson shirts. That will remove the curse.”

“What?!”

“All Star Trek red shirts die- why am I explaining this?”

“Beats me.”

“Anyway, Nate… I’m still trying to trace the call that reported the terrorism threat, but I’m going through police channels, assessing their searches, and only after I finish that phase, I will – maybe – be able to pass them and spread my own search. I can’t tell you whether it works or not.”

“As I said, keep doing everything as if everything is going as planned.”

The studio door opened and Florence hurried out.

“She’s back,” Eliot said. “That was fast.”

He pushed himself from the wall to meet her, but Chris and Vin, who were passing by again, saw her and went to her at the same time. He stopped and let them go to her, watching their interaction.

This was her world, he realized listening to their quick exchange, half of which he didn’t understand at all. She seemed relaxed in these surroundings, in spite of the danger and flickering nerves, and it seemed that the more time passed in here, the calmer she was. These people, stars, TV workers, were her circle – she probably had more in common with that sound rehearsal guy at the mixing board than with any of the team. He knew that the whole time, and why did that hurt so badly now? Even Jethro was a part of it – he should’ve guessed he was also in some sort of TV business.

Watching her with her people now was almost as bad as seeing her real smile at that panel on the disc commentary. He knew, very well, that he shouldn’t feel loss while losing something he had never really had, yet… it did hurt. So he put a neutral smile on his face, emptied his head of all shit, all the torturing _if onlys_ , and concentrated on their conversation.

They quickly went through all the cancellation news, problems with their contracts that ended just now, after five years. She tensed when they asked about the accusations on her behalf – but they didn’t believe she was behind all that mess. That brought relief to her face. Then Chris told her about their talk with Brewer, and how he asked about their ‘little group of grandmas in red shirts with balloons’, asking if they were preparing something for the PVA. She looked at him now – he avoided her eyes.

One more guy joined the small group, one of the demon-hunting baby faces, and her smile became warmer. It seemed he was aware of the slaughter in his fandom.

Eliot put the tablet back at his belt, the tablet that held the fate of the Supernatural fandom, and he barely hid the smirk at the irony of it.

She knew and liked that guy, that was clear; she let his hand slip around her waist while he talked with the two other guys, leaning into her personal space and smiling.

He knew exactly twenty-seven ways to break that arm, and five to rip it off his body.

“We should definitely exchange main characters,” she said as a reply to his words. “You would be great as a bad guy in season six… if we get one. I’ll talk with your people. And if possible, I’ll put Danneel as a recurring role, the feedback for her first one was very good. Have you decided the names yet?”

“Yep, it’ll have a lot of J’s, whether a girl or a boy.”

Chris and Vin went to their studio, it was their turn, and Eliot followed them with his eyes down the corridor.

No Dvorak Security.

But there was one man, the only one in the busy corridor, who wasn’t in a hurry, and he caught his eye.

He didn’t look like an agent impersonating a guest; about sixty years old, with a bunch of reddish hair over Lennon-like glasses. His dark suit looked like any other here – expensive and classy, nothing that would usually catch his eye. But his eyes behind the round glasses, steady and unblinking, were glued on Florence and demon hunter.

Maybe Don Lazzara held back Dvorak Security to calm them down, sending a hitman instead.

He joined the pair, putting the professional smile on his face.

“We have to go, Mrs. McCoy,” he said. That brought her back to reality; it hurt seeing her smile disappearing, her shoulders tensing. “Just a second – may I take a picture with you and…Jensen?” he remembered the name at the last moment. He quickly drew his tablet and took one step aside, waiting for them to smile, catching the Lennon in the background.

“Thank you. We can go now.”

She quickly said goodbye to Jensen and followed him.

“Do you know the guy with the Lennon glasses – don’t turn around, wait until we’re at the door – that is standing by the other wall, alone?”

She used the opening of the door to turn around and smile at him, darting a quick glance back.

“Never seen him before. Why?”

“Nothing important. Carry on.” He gave her her earbud back and sent the picture. “Hardison, put this guy through the facial recognition, will ya?”

He couldn’t trust anybody here, all of them could be killers sent for her. And them.

Okay, maybe not Robert Downey Jr. But he wouldn’t bet on Kim Basinger.

.

.

.

***

.

Her green cocktail was waiting for her when they got back to the cocktail party, and Florence flashed a grateful smile at Sophie; the grifter had spiced it up with a little Jack. Sophie was with Nate and two Japanese women and they seemed to be deep into conversation, yet she could see how their positions were adjusted to monitor all the major points in the hall. They controlled everything, and the only thing obstructing their sight lines were the columns with the mirrors.

Everything seemed to be going just fine, but the knot in her stomach didn’t loose up a bit, on the contrary. Waiting for the strike was much harder than receiving a blow. Her nerves trembled.

“Maybe I should join my crew,” she said to Eliot, noticing the familiar faces at the other end of the room, gathered near the TV crews that were interviewing and filming whoever they could grab and put in front of the velvet wall.

But she didn’t want to go to them. She'd exchanged all the news, and she wasn’t in the mood for empty blather. She had chirped with Jensen, Chris and Vin only to look normal, to not raise any suspicion. All she wanted was to sneak under Eliot’s jacket, and stay there until all this finished. She was looking directly at his loosened tie and his neck: she remembered, too well, the smell of his skin, his warmth, and she had to take just a half step to place her lips on that maddening temptation.

“You do that.” His reply was strangely flat and she raised her head to look at his eyes. _Do what_? It took a few seconds to bring herself back and remember her own words. She couldn’t see any reason to continue with the official bodyguard talk. He was a guest again, without the cord, with his hair loose, he could be less official.

Something had changed. He stood within arms reach, but she felt his distance. Did he want her to go to them? Why? What was wrong with being together, almost alone for a moment? Alone, with four other people in their heads, she added morosely. That made any private question impossible.

She searched his face for any clue, but his features were set in a polite, empty smile that looked so cold after she'd seen his real warmth.

“Okay, I’ll go,” she said with barely hidden uncertainty, balancing upon asking him why. He didn’t even look at her, he watched over her head. No questions this time – she dreaded the answers. She held her cocktail more firmly and turned around.

“Stop,” his voice went into a low warning and she stopped short. “Nate,” he went on, this time much quieter, just above a whisper.

“I see,” Nate’s voice was followed with a sigh.

She still stood motionless.

“Florence, try to act as if nothing is happening, okay?” Nate said.

Nothing _was_ happening, as far as she knew. She slowly turned around; maybe Eliot would be more informative.

But he didn’t look at her, he was busy. His arms were crossed now, his position much steadier than just a second ago – and he was staring directly at Don Lazzara and Robert Knudsen, only two steps from him.

.

.

.

***

.

“Florence, listen up,” Nate’s voice got an edge in it, and it was almost comforting, it reached through her sudden stupor. “Knudsen _isn’t_ free. Remember that. Don Lazzara only paid his bail money – he is still going to jail, there’s no escape for him. You put him there. _Remember that_. You are not alone.”

No, she wasn’t alone.

She returned one step back and stood by Eliot, facing them. They weren’t alone either – behind Knudsen hovered Goon A and Goon C, their gazes fixed on Eliot, burning with bare hate.

But nothing could compare to the look in Knudsen’s eyes. Nate’s words were true; they did destroy him. Nothing was left. The young, gallant mobster was just a shadow now, completely aware of his fate. If he could kill her now, he would, she could feel his rage and urge to strike in the coils in his muscles, in his restrained, stiff posture.

Surprisingly, Eliot felt completely relaxed. She didn’t have to look at him to check, she knew she would see only a lazy smile.

Silence spread. She stared at them.

“There, there,” a soft, mild voice broke their gazing, and they looked at Don Lazzara who watched them all in turns. “Frankly, this looks like a scene from a cheap movie,” he said slowly. “Just imagine everybody pointing a gun at each other, and the set up would be complete.” His eyes turned to her, soft, with wrinkles under the bushy eyebrows. “What are you drinking, dear? That looks… like a cabbage smoothie.”

She should say something witty, but her mind refused to cooperate.

The old man’s eyes went gentler. “Don’t be afraid,” he said softly.

A wave of chills went up her spine, as if cold, old fingers trailed her skin. That scared the hell out of her.

“Talk to him,” Nate said quickly. “Let him speak as much as you can – everything he says is important. And _don’t_ be afraid. We are here.”

Yeah, right, she could just turn her fear off, on command. She gripped her cocktail, using Don Lazzara’s question to look at it, as if she was seeing it for the first time, desperately trying to buy some time. To think of anything to say. Her mouth was dry.

“You have a lot of nerve, bringing him here,” she said finally, nodding to Knudsen. Her voice sounded shaky and weak, and she cursed inwardly.

Don Lazzara tilted his head – he was her height, plump and so damn normal – and continued to smile with the same soft glance in his eyes. “Everybody is innocent, until proven guilty. I expect his accusations to be dismissed.” He looked at Eliot now. “Good group you have here. Your muscle pissed off my men.”

She waited for Eliot to say something. He remained silent.

“Your men? I thought Dvorak Security was _his_ business,” she tried to put despise in her voice, waving at Knudsen as if he was irrelevant, finished business. Knudsen bared his teeth.

“Do not provoke him, Florence.” This time, Sophie’s hurried whisper sounded in her ear. “He is on the edge, look at his body language – that man is deranged and half mad. We can’t risk any open public scene with the two of you now.”

“Unfortunately, this entire mess _is_ now my business,” Don Lazzara sighed. “I have to deal with everything… you understand that, I hope? It’s only business. You shouldn’t poke at things that aren’t yours to go near, and you surely shouldn’t involve that group of troublemakers in everything. You see, a TV writer who knows too much could maybe be frightened to silence, threatened or blackmailed. But the moment you involved other people in this, you changed everything. Not to mention attacking my nephew.”

 _It’s only business_. How she started to hate that sentence. But that helped, fear slowly ebbed away, and her anger surfaced.

“Careful,” Sophie read the change in her posture in a second.

“By attacking, you mean destroying him in one day?” She asked sweetly. “Oh, excuse me… two days. In the first day we just made a joke out of his entire, dangerous security company. Youtube is still bursting with the ‘teenagers that broke into armed security vehicles’.”

Goon A and Goon C took one step back and aside; they weren’t taking their eyes off of Eliot. Knudsen, on the other hand, lost all the color in his face, and only his uncle’s hand gripping his arm stopped him from taking a step towards her.

“You’re a funny little terrier.” If possible, Don Lazzara’s voice became even warmer. “I’m not surprised you’re so brave _now_.” He looked at Eliot now, studying him. “Tell me, young man, why are you, and your friends, risking your life for her?”

She darted one sideways glance at Eliot, too; his face was calm, he wasn’t even frowning, and only his posture revealed the tension radiating from him. She was sure only she could feel that under his steady features.

They all waited for his reply. And again, he said nothing, his eyes not showing any interest when he returned Don Lazzara’s stare. That was awkward. He was much better than her at making mobsters talk, he would know what to tell them to provoke them to speak.

And Don Lazzara wasn’t used to being ignored, his smile faded a little. Provoking the uncle was much less clever than provoking the nephew, she thought worriedly, feeling that she was missing something here.

“I saw your statement in front of the City Council,” she said when the silence became unbearably uncomfortable. “You said you were looking forward to meeting us all at the PVA. So, here we are. What do you want? If you want to play a game, let’s set the rules.”

He frowned, and shook his head. “I feel a TV writer behind those words,” he said slowly. “But you aren’t the material for that sort of play, young lady. When _you_ say it, it sounds childish. Don’t try to play a big game, you don’t know how.”

And he was damn right. That man held lives and deaths in his hands, and power she couldn’t even imagine; she couldn’t play that game with him, he _lived_ it every day. And he was reading her disturbingly accurately, all her fear and pretending.

Anything she could say was pretentious now, and she hoped Eliot would finally say something, anything, but this time it seemed he didn’t feel her trouble.

She wasn’t one of them, she couldn’t grift or act, and her every word reekedof fear. She couldn’t even control the trembling of her fingers, only gripping the glass kept them steady. Her despair was quickly growing into panic.

“You might think you’re safe here,” she blurted out, waving with her glass around them. “Because of all the famous people and security – but you are going down. Tonight.”

Don Lazzara raised his eyebrows. And then laughed. It was such a warm, pleasant sound, she thought, as her dread grew. Her heartbeat, she noticed it just then, was faster then while running.

“I am going down tonight?” he repeated, still smiling. “Here? And you and your friends are those who will do it? Do you know how long different law enforcement agencies have been trying to prove any connection between me and a mob?”

“Irrelevant,” she said firmly.

“Irrelevant…” he repeated thoughtfully, watching her with disturbing interest, then his eyes flickered to Eliot again. He waved his hand. Goon A and Goon C slowly turned around and walked away, one to the left, one to the right. The groups of people swallowed them after only a few seconds, they disappeared. She felt the tension rising, though Eliot didn’t move; he had an enemy on each side, going around him, that he couldn’t control or see.

“Easy,” Nate’s voice was calmer than before. “Sophie and I will monitor them and track them around.”

Don Lazzara wouldn’t attack Eliot here, openly, this was insane. Her mind jumped frantically, trying to catch every possible meaning.

The old man took one step closer to her and it took all her strength to not take a step back.

He slowly reached his hand and put it on her bare shoulder, caressing it, and she gasped in disbelief. The touch felt dry. Cold. Inappropriate. She froze. But in one heartbeat, she realized what he was doing. Eliot _ought_ to react to this. And when he did, when he made a scene with a guest of honor, all security would be here in a second. With just one touch, he would get rid of the most dangerous of them. A sudden panic pushed her – instead of recoiling from his touch, in a moment of sheer terror, she moved forward, toward him.

She leaned into his personal space, tilting her head toward his face – could he hear her thundering heartbeat? – and lowered her voice. “You are playing out a cliché villain. You gloat over your victims, explaining your plans and intentions. Why? Are you mocking me, Don Lazzara? Because if you are, you’ll end up ridiculed in my next episode – and that’s a fate much worse than death.”

He slowly turned his face to hers, too close, and she had to back off. “But you don’t have enough,” he said. _What was that supposed to mean_? His smile was too confident. “I know you managed to override the jamming in the room, and that your communication set is still working. See, I had a good talk with Robert, and with every single one of my men you came in contact with. Every detail, all the pieces, put together, gave a pretty good picture of how you do things.” He drained his glass, and exchanged it for a freshly charged one presented immediately by a passing hostess. She glanced at her, hoping it would be Parker with something helpful, but it was an unfamiliar woman.

“You only think you know something. And you can’t kill us,” she said. “Not here. You just came here to brag about your invincibility, because you feel safe now.”

“I feel safe always. Don’t you think they didn’t try? I leave no spoken or written traces, there’s nothing to be traced or hacked, because I have professionals who take care of that, who guarantee I’m not bugged or listened to. And just like everybody else, you are helpless now. Robert, will you please hold this for me?” He put his glass in Knudsen’s hand, and reached under his jacket.

Eliot still didn’t move, though she flinched at that movement. But it wasn’t a weapon. He held out a small black stick, and smiled. He did a lot of smiling, she thought absentmindedly, while Hardison’s muttered _Hell no_ echoed in her head.

A short buzz, a click, and the background sound in her ear cleared out. There wasn’t any sound coming from others’ earbuds.

She was cut off from Nate and Sophie, and left with a mute who was no help at all.

Hell with that; she couldn’t do this alone. Hell with strength and courage and all that shit – her fear became annoyance, her own helplessness pushing her anger up. “Will it flash red light?” she asked bitterly. “What kind of toy is _that_?”

“It’s an electronic bug sweeper. Detects RF signals, cameras, bugs, tracing devices, communication sets, and disables them.” He put it back in his pocket and took his glass from Knudsen. “I usually always have it turned on, but I wanted your entire group to hear our talk – up to this point. But I’m getting bored, so we’ll finish this.” All pretense of cordiality evaporated from his voice. He turned to Eliot now, dismissing her as irrelevant – and she was – and his voice grew the edge they all heard in his recorded statement. “You can try to make a little setup like you’ve done for Robert – but without your toys, you can’t record me. You’re empty handed. And you’ll die tonight. All of you. Now, tell your boss, young man, that the game is on, starting… now.” His voice fell on the last word, into an empty void. She felt her knees going rubbery.

He glanced at her for a second. “See? That’s how that's supposed to sound, dear.”

Then he took one step closer to Eliot and she froze. “You are their only muscle, am I right?”

A direct question. She held her breath. Eliot just tilted his head instead of an answer. His eyes revealed nothing, as if he was listening to a basketball game through his earbud, not following their conversation at all. The older man was intrigued by his silence, she noticed.

Don Lazzara stared in his eyes and the silence stretched, but it wasn’t a staring contest. He simply studied him, and took one step back when he had enough. Knew enough.

He raised his glass to her in a gesture of toast, and sipped. “I’ll be here, around, if you want to come to me and talk,” he said. “I love to know the people I’m about to kill. It adds a meaning and a purpose. Only you, little lady, might be spared tonight, I haven’t decided yet. Your death here, because you’re a public person, would perhaps attract too much noise. But, without your protection, it won’t be hard to deal with you tomorrow. Or arrange a tragic accident while you leave the ceremony. The night is long, my friends.”

His eyes left them both, sweeping over the hall. “The night is long,” he repeated gently.

.

.

.

***

.

“What the hell did you-” her words were cut off when Eliot’s hand flashed just an inch from her nose; she shut up. She was getting better at this, she thought, watching Don Lazzara's and Knudsen's backs moving away from them. She didn’t even ask why he was stopping her from speaking.

Then she looked at him. Stiff, with burning eyes that followed the two men, concentration seeping from every pore.

The next second, their earbuds were working again.

“Okay people, we have them again,” Hardison said. “Eliot, did you by any chance-”

“Fourteen seconds,” he replied. “They walked slowly. I'm guessing it’s around a ten meter radius.”

“That,” Hardison cleared his throat, “means we’re screwed. That probe disables everything in a ten meter circle around him. We can’t do anything. What did the probe look like?”

“A small stick, black, one inch longer that Florence’s glass. I’ll send you a picture to compare…” Eliot stopped. They couldn’t send any pictures in this hall. They could do nothing. “Never mind.”

“Right. I’ll try to find the exact model, maybe I’ll think of something. Nate-”

“As I said, continue as planned.” Nate’s voice sounded near and she glanced over her shoulder. He was just two steps behind them, picking from an hors d’oeuvre tray that personnel were carrying around.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” she asked Eliot. He flinched as if she hit him and his lips formed a thin line.

“I couldn’t,” he said. “Various reasons.” He avoided her eyes for a moment, but when he looked at her again, he looked directly into her eyes. “Though I wanted to.”

“But-”

“Later,” Nate came to them, offering them food; they both waved it away. “Hardison is right. We can’t record anything, we can’t catch him in anything suspicious or illegal, and we can’t record it and use it. Yet, it doesn’t mean we can’t _know_ what he is up to. We have our own, un-jammable device. Eliot, will you be so kind…”

Eliot just nodded and went after Don Lazzara and Knudsen.

“Sophie?” Nate continued.

“Goons are at the other end of the hall, I’ll let him know if they come near.”

Florence tried to decipher anything from Nate’s face. He seemed just a nuance more concentrated, faster than usual, but nothing in his face reflected the fact that they were, practically, dead.

She waved her hand at Eliot’s back, with a helpless, unspoken question.

“It wasn’t their first encounter,” Nate said.

So what? She followed Eliot with her eyes, thinking. Don Lazzara didn’t show any sign of recognition, or that they had previously met. And Eliot had been surprised when he saw Don Lazzara’s picture for the first time, a few days ago. When and how did they… _Oh_. The realization hit her just a second after that thought, when she recalled his explanation of how the Italians were involved in the fight with the Chileans. _The v_ _oice of Renan Villacorta_. Of course he couldn’t, mustn’t say a word, even if their lives depended on it… Don Lazzara would recognize his voice. It was only a phone call, not a meeting, but as Eliot had said when both nurses from Mass Gen recognized him, _he had a very distinctive voice_. She didn’t dare even imagine all the complications that would result from Don Lazzara finally connecting them to the Chilean trouble.

Nate watched her thinking, and she nodded to him. He did it again… instead of replying to all her questions, he just directed her and left her to find the answers herself, as he had done from the beginning. Even now, he was still testing her, she knew that; testing her response time, her posture, her nerves. And she didn’t know why.

“I won’t have time to explain who's saying what,” Eliot said in her ear. “I’ll just repeat everything, you try to sort it out. For now, they are talking with a Major, nothing important.”

She got it, too. He would read their lips. It would give them useful insight, but it would still be useless for any of Nate’s plans.

“What if Parker pickpockets him and take the probe?” she asked Nate.

“No use,” Hardison jumped in. “He would just get another from the set, a probe is just that… a probe. I found what it might be, and it ain’t good. It’s CMS – Counter Measure Set – and it’s probably CMS-19, if not bigger. It’s in a briefcase, a very large briefcase, somewhere in the building, operated by his _professional_ ,” he added bitterly. “We can’t get near him with any of our things.”

“Any more good news, Hardison?” Nate, in spite of his tone, put something bluish in his mouth and started chewing. She wasn’t sure if that was a play for her, to calm her fears, or if he really wasn’t that worried. Maybe both.

“Yeah, more good news,” Hardison said after some more typing. “By the range of the probe, it’s an extremely expensive set. No wonder no one could find anything that would prove that the honorable city councilor is a mob moss. He simply can’t be caught.”

“We are not everybody, Hardison.”

“No, you don’t understand, we can’t do anything around him. That set has an advanced transmitter, detectors, Wireband RF probes, Wiretop detectors, jammer, infrared probe... We are, well, screwed… and our entire plan depended on-”

“Leave the plans to me, Hardison. You focus on your part of the job, as if nothing changed. We always knew we would catch him on something small – that’s still in force. We’ll just find another way of doing it. Parker?” Nate went on.

“Heard everything. I’m going over Opera House, checking all the places that have jammed connections – not very many of them, but still trouble for us. Certainly trouble now that he has his own shield around him. I’ve sent Hardison all the points-”

“Get back into your technician outfit, and try to find that briefcase with-”

“No, Nate,” Eliot cut him off. “At least, not without me – he would have several men with it, not just the one that operates it. They will be armed and ready to kill.”

“More men would make it easier to find,” Parker said.

“No, not now. Nate, wait with that. We have time. Dvorak Security isn’t yet here. When I finish with these two, I’ll go with her. Get ready, they are leaving the Major, it’s just the two of them now…” he trailed off. Florence tried to see him, or them, through the crowd, but there were too many people in groups and walking around, in too big a hall.

“I will try to put pauses between switching from one to the other, but it will be a mess… _I told you once, and I won’t repeat myself, you’re here only to show people that I believe you’re innocent, not to do anything. If you move just one step away from me, you’ll pay dearly. … I don’t give a damn what you think is clever, it’s my job to deal with them and I’m gonna do it. Dvorak Security are my men, you keep forgetting that_ … Hardison, try to write this down, just in case. They are staring, pissed off. Turning around, continuing to walk… _I didn’t make this terrorism threat in vain! I put too much into your shit, Robert, and I won’t – look at me, you pathetic piece of shit! – and I won’t let you ruin everything with your stupidity! Is that clear!? You are staying here. With me. Or, god is my witness, I will end you!_ … That was nasty, Knudsen stares at him in disbelief,” Eliot stopped talking. Florence tensed, noticing how breathless he became just because he was talking fast. She glanced at Nate to see if he noticed it too, but he was looking downwards, waiting for the rest.

“Eliot, Goon A is coming to them,” Sophie trailed in. “The other one… what did you call him, Goon C? He left the party just a second ago. You have just that one to take care of.”

“ _Fuck you, Uncle. I’m leaving. I’ll kill them all, my way. They are my business. Stay away from me and my men_!... Knudsen left Don Lazzara. Nate, this is interesting; he claims Dvorak Security are his men, but Goon A isn’t going with him, he stayed by Don Lazzara. They are both watching him leave.” Eliot paused again. “Okay, no more lip reading, they noticed me. Goon A is smiling. I’m too far away, they think I’m just monitoring their position, they know I can’t hear them. Don Lazzara is nodding in my direction. … _Kill him_ , he said to Goon A … nothing new, moving along. He is stopping Goon A mid step, though. … _Stop Robert by any means. He will ruin everything. You have free hands. Bring him back to me_.”

“Okay, Eliot, that’s enough, pull back,” Nate said. “Goon A will have to wait with the execution, for now.”

“So, this makes things even more complicated, Nate,” Sophie said from somewhere. “You thought you’d have Don Lazzara to read and play, but now you have two of them… both of them trying to kill us. Two actions against us, instead of just one. Not to mention that one of them is a loose cannon now; Knudsen really has nothing to lose, he's only thinking about revenge, he won’t be calm and logical. He is half-insane by now.”

“Half-insane people make mistakes, Soph. I’m more worried about pragmatic, Don Lazzara’s thorough plans, than about Knudsen’s uncontrolled rampage.”

“Well, I’m not,” Eliot said quietly. He came back and joined her and Nate, making a triangle; they looked just like any other small group, standing with their drinks, chatting. Just for a second, his fingers brushed over hers, and her heart leaped. “An uncontrolled rampage demands quick reactions to deadly threats. Many of them.” He left the conclusion unspoken, but she knew what he meant to say. Their hitter might not be able to cover all that. Not now.

Nate said nothing, he was playing with his glass, lost in thought.

That gave her the opportunity to dart a smile at Eliot, quick and half-hidden. She couldn’t know how many eyes were watching them. He didn’t smile back, but his eyes went softer, she felt the message. God, how tired he looked. She took in every detail of his face, and his too-bright eyes, wondering if the fever was kept under control, and how he would remain on his feet this entire time. She was tired already, of walking, talking, uselessly wasting strength and too-strained nerves. She was tired of fear the most.

“Hardison…” Nate’s voice went one level lower, and Eliot’s head turned to him in an instant. She followed. Nate’s face was set into a sharp mask, and her heart fell. “How many armored Dvo-Sec vehicles did you say surround the buildings?”

“Seven. Why?”

Nate didn’t respond; it seemed his eyes lost focus completely, swiveling over the hall. She heard Eliot catching his breath and that scared her more than Nate’s strange behavior. She lowered her eyes to Nate’s hand holding the glass; his knuckles were white.

“What’s going on?” Sophie was near them in a second, probably drawn in by Nate’s tone.

“Hardison, get out of Lucille, _now_!” The order was spoken with such strength that she almost jumped to obey. “He knew too much,” Nate quickly continued. “He knew about our communications, and with his professional, they know we have to have some kind of base. They are out there, all of Dvorak Security, to find it, to get to you. That’s why they aren’t here, they are closing the net around the buildings, and you are the first to go down. _Get. Out_.”

“Okay, okay, I’m shutting everything down…” Hardison’s voice was followed by clicking and clanging. “I’ll take everything I need and join you. You left markers, you said, so I won’t get lost in the tunnels. But you might be overreacting, they don’t know Lucille, they haven’t seen her anywhere.”

 _They did_ , she wanted to say, but her throat was closed in frozen panic.

“They did,” Sophie said. “A few of them chased Florence and me in an SUV around the slaughterhouse. And he said he talked with all his men who dealt with us. They are looking for a silver van. _Get. Out_.”

“Great,” the hacker huffed. “I won’t go the same route you all did; I mean I will, most of the time, but I won’t come up through the laundry, just in case. That’s our escape route with our things there and I don’t want to draw them there and show them that, they might wait there for us later. There is one more exit a little later, that goes out deep into the back part of the Opera. It isn’t a subway tunnel there, it’s a connection to the old smuggler passages, and-”

“Hardison, shut up and hurry!” Eliot’s voice was rough and ragged; with growing fear, Florence realized he was scared. They all were, breathlessly listening, waiting. Four frozen sculptures.

“Calm down, I got this. I’m closing Lucille, going out…” His earbud caught the sound of traffic, loud cars were passing by him. “I’m going into… uh-oh.”

“What?!”

“Okay, Nate was right.” His voice lost all its color. “They are here. But don’t worry, I’m faster… gotta go now, no time to talk.”

Eliot made one uncontrolled step, then stopped, took one step back. She bit her lip, not daring to speak, not trusting her voice.

“Nate, tunnels with mobsters on his tail,” Eliot ground out. “They’ll shoot. I have to go.”

Nate took one deep, deep breath. Then nodded.

“Sophie, distraction,” Eliot said before he turned around. “Stay together,” he added over his shoulder in an almost desperate voice.

Sophie collapsed on the floor as if somebody shot her, and Nate was hovering over her in a second.

“Medical emergency!” he shouted. “Is there a doctor? You, security, get somebody to help us!”

Eliot turned around and _ran_. Florence stared after him in disbelief. He couldn’t run. He shouldn’t run. How…

 _This is a mistake, this is provoked, this is a mistake, they are not ready_ … She staggered to the column and leaned on the cold mirror. _She_ wasn’t ready for this – and she knew this might happen. All her psyching up had been useless, she crashed at the first crisis, the first sign of danger.

If only they had all just stayed here, together, they would be safe, no one could touch them here. And now he was going into the tunnels, to intercept armed killers. All the fear boiling inside her burst out and she covered her mouth with her hand, stopping a desperate meep.

“Nate.” Her whisper made Nate leave Sophie in an instant; she was surrounded by women and security.

He gripped her arm and took her a few steps aside. “Smile,” his voice was bleak. “Your crew is near, they are watching you. Smile.” He put a glass in her hands.

She smiled. He smiled.

She sipped her drink, and stopped when her teeth clattered on the glass.

She couldn’t see him, just a blurry dark shadow through the tears.

“He can’t… he mustn’t...” She stopped stuttering.

Nate pushed something in her hand; a napkin. She dabbed her eyes. _Smile_. Her breathing was quick, shallow. A claw tightened around her head and squeezed.

“Now listen to me,” he said almost gently. “Whatever happens, you’re safe when you are with your crew. Stay as close to them as you can, always in the group. Okay?”

“We all should’ve done that,” she whispered. “He should’ve stayed here.” She lowered her voice to a breath, so only he could hear her. “ _He can’t do it_.”

“We all do things that we can’t,” he said, but his eyes flickered to the exit, to the corridor where Eliot disappeared. “You too. And we will do it many more times tonight.”

They both listened, but their earbuds gave just background noises, nothing more. Nobody talked. She couldn’t decipher the sound of running through all the different sounds.

“It has started,” Nate said quietly, watching the people in the hall. “We knew it would. _You_ knew it would.” He returned his eyes to her. “It’s up to you now – you can curl up in some corner and cry – or you can play the game with us. And trust us.”

Nate went back to Sophie, not waiting for her reply. The grifter was waving her hand in front of her face, smiling at people, thanking them.

She listened.

He promised her to come back to her, wherever he was, whatever happened. _He promised_. She did trust him, always, he wouldn’t lie to her. He never did. She repeated that, over and over again, counting the seconds.

She continued to do that even when the seconds grew into minutes, and in the end, the only thing that she could count were the bullets. Bursts and whizzing echoed through her earbud.

 _He promised_.

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***

 

 

 


	62. Chapter 62A

 

two chapters today - 62A ans 62B

 

Chapter 62A

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***

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It had been a four minute walk from the place where they entered the tunnels on their way in, and their exit into laundry room. It took them almost twenty. Plenty of time to kill one man, a hacker, not used to running and hiding. Eliot sometimes thought that Hardison wasn’t used even to _walking_.

Eliot couldn’t run through a corridor full of people who knew nothing about the medical emergency at the cocktail party, but he stormed down the stairs as fast as he could. Again, slower steps when he entered the corridor with the machinery compartment, but when he didn’t see anybody, he kept a fast, steady pace toward the laundry room, grateful for Sophie’s clever move of hiding the key by the door.

His luck held, still nobody was in sight.

One more level down, to the big room full of abandoned furniture, and the tunnels were right below him.

He lost three minutes.

Gunshots exploded in his ear. His breathing was so loud that he could hear nothing else.

“Dammit Hardison, say something!”

Silence. More gunshots. _They wouldn’t shoot at someone already dead, right_? Gunshots were a good sign. Silence was deadly, in this case.

He hurried up, trying not to breathe, not to stumble.

“Somethin’.” Finally, an equally breathless whisper.

He was so relieved that he leaped down the ladder, remembering too late how bad that move really was. The landing vibrated through his chest and sent him staggering, as pain from the wound rushed over him. He cursed under his breath, but he had no time for whining, not even inwardly.

His feet splashed into two inches of muddy water when he jumped again, gritting his teeth, into complete darkness.

He closed his eyes and listened.

Moonlight Serenade, and endless chatter from the team’s earbuds, and the banging of hammers from Parker’s. He cursed again and took the earbud out.

Better. His breathing was the only sound now. A soft dripping near the concrete wall was another one, crystal clear.

He was in a small passage, one of many that led from the main subway tunnel with tracks. He had to find his way to that big one; that was direction from which Hardison would come. Unless he wasn’t already in the smaller ones, and he would miss him.

It was illusory to expect Hardison to notice, or even look for the markers that Nate left, not while being chased through the darkness.

Gunshots again, coming from the main tunnel.

His legs were shaking. He couldn’t have thought about preserving strength while running… no, damn, he _forgot_ about it, too scared, thinking only about how to get here as soon as he could.

He didn’t have any light. One more mistake that could cost them all their lives – he stormed through the laundry room forgetting to take flashlights from their bags. The bluish phone light gave him enough light not to smack face-first into the walls, but not enough to see all the obstacles, holes and smaller passages.

He kept his face towards the sound of bullets, and hurried.

When he reached one part of the main tunnel – and he didn’t know which part, not knowing which passage led him there – he saw why Hardison was still alive.

Dvorak Security didn’t have any light either. He could bet Hardison’s retreat underground took them by surprise and they just followed. Now they were shooting after him – after a black man in a black suit in a pitch black tunnel.

He would grin if he didn’t have to grit his teeth. Even shooting blindly, using only the light from their guns as they fired, could kill a man, and Hardison, as he saw by his flickering silhouette against the muzzle flashes, was running straight, not trying to dodge bullets or evade them. The chase moved towards him, and he only had to wait for them.

Three guns behind the hacker; they followed him very closely, and they were closing in.

He withdrew back into the passage, closed his eyes and tried to collect any strength left. Footsteps closed in, a mixture of splashing and thumping.

He let Hardison pass by him, tucked his tablet firmer under his vest, and prepared himself.

They were damn close – only ten seconds passed before they reached his hiding point, and he darted directly into them, out of nowhere.

All three guns went off, but he was among them in a second. He smashed his left elbow in one face, broke the arm with the gun, whirling that helpless screaming mobster, putting all the accumulated motion in a knee hit to the ribs for the last one.

No more bullets, so no more light; they waved around him helplessly, he didn’t need eyes to know where they were. One by one, he immobilized them, and smashed them into the damp concrete wall head first.

Silence again. Just his breathing, and darkness.

Hardison cleared his throat two meters away. He felt the question mark at the end of that sound.

“Yeah, I’m the one standing,” he whispered. _For now_. He groped until he found the scraggy wall again, and leaned on it, resisting the urge to sit – damn suit, and damn white shirt.

“Three more took a wrong turn and entered the smaller passages at the beginning.” Surprisingly, Hardison sounded concise. “They called for more people from the second armored vehicle, told them to come with lights. They’ll be here in minutes. They will-” a flicker of light down the tunnel completed his sentence, he didn’t have to finish.

The torchlights found them immediately in the straight tunnel, and bullets whizzed around them, followed by thundering.

They both jumped into the passage. Hardison pulled out his phone. He had two laptop bags over his shoulders, and a backpack, and he was almost as breathless as he was. “I’ll try to find escape routes that-” he stopped and shook his phone. “No signal.”

“Jammers? Here?”

“No, we’re just too deep underground,” the hacker turned around, checking. “Whatever. Move, they saw where we disappeared, we have to find some hole to let them pass.”

“Lead the way,” he waved gallantly to the darkness. Hardison eyed him for a second, but there was no time for talking; they both could hear running footsteps.

There weren’t many things worse than being chased with torchlights and guns, having only a phone as your own light, even when completely healthy. Okay, maybe being led by the hacker – but he had to stay behind, to be ready if they got too close, too soon.

After only half a minute, he noticed that Hardison actually knew what he was doing, he chose the turns without hesitation. The chase would have to check every branch, every passage, and lose time.

“I might be bad when outdoors,” Hardison muttered as if guessing his thoughts, “but I studied these passages while drawing the escape routes, and I still have that map in my head. Help me open this door. Careful, it might screech.”

The doors were metal – unlocked, but with a big key in it, rusty and immobile. Together, slowly, they managed to move them enough to skip through the opening. The passage behind the doors reeked of dead things. The air was so humid they could drink it. It didn’t help his breathing.

“Storm drain,” Hardison breathed. “Has many openings and small places to hide, and at the end of it, before it connects with one passage again, it goes back, in a half circle. It should bring us back into the part under the laundry room and closer to the main tunnel, if the laundry room is blocked. Follow me.”

Easier said than done. Hardison chose his steps carefully; the metal parts of the floor were slick with things he didn’t want to see clearly. Near the walls were the rotten remains of wooden boxes and pallets.

Footsteps still echoed behind them. Clanging sent vibrations through the nearby metal.

He tried to pull his earbud from his pocket, but his fingers trembled; it took three tries to catch the tiny thing and put it in his ear.

“Nate,” he whispered. “Got him. Playing hide ‘n seek. Keep them all together. Can’t talk now.”

“ETA?” Nate’s voice was quiet, too.

“No idea. They will enter normally now and be everywhere, watch your backs.”

He took the earbud out. “Keep yours in,” he said to Hardison. “I have to listen. How the hell do they work when phones have no signal-”

Hardison waved one laptop bag. “Thought you understood the principle by now. It’s-”

A clang came from the wrong direction; Eliot grabbed his arm to stop him.

“Get down!” he breathed, pushing him into something darker than the rest of the wall. A light beam hit him directly in the eyes.

“Here!” a loud yell was followed by dancing shapes; the bullets again plowed the wall around him. But they were too close, they burst from one opening, and they were within his reach.

Two men – the lamp flew from the hand when he hit it, landing in the water and dying. He held the pain deep inside, and hit, and hit, and hit, with his eyes closed, until the pulsing purple behind his eyelids was the only thing that moved around him.

He had no time to get it together. Or falling. Hardison pulled him after him the moment the second body fell. “These two are uncounted,” the hacker’s hurried whisper was low and scared. “They've spread out, and they are blindly trying every opening. We have to hurry or they’ll cut us off at the exit.”

“So, our escape routes are compromised during the first encounter with them? Great job.” He was too shaken to think before he spoke. Hardison’s hand slackened its grip and the hacker stopped.

“I tried the street first, to draw them away,” Hardison said slowly. “I went down only when they caught me in a cross fire – after I got two bullets in my backpack.”

 _Ah, damn_. Hardison didn’t wait for his reply. “We can’t be picky now – the first exit up, we follow, even in the laundry to show them where it is.”

“Right. Find it, and take us out of here.”

Hardison chose the left dark opening. They walked only ten meters when it ended in water. A stream cut their way. He could see no markings anywhere, didn’t know if this was the place where Nate almost swam. It looked much higher, the tide was rising. They had to go back and try the other side.

All he could think of – and it wasn’t clever to do while in trouble here – was everything that could go wrong at the cocktail party. He knew, though, that those minutes, for them above their heads, went only in chatting and drinking, much slower than his, but… he wasn’t there. And he should’ve been. Not to mention that Parker was alone too. He cursed, silently, not to disturb Hardison, trying to put his rage under some control. To concentrate on now, and here.

He kept his teeth gritted in a permanent lock. After bumping into boxes, and once into the wall, he kept his right arm wrapped around his chest to protect the wound from any touch. The double bandages held tight, but he couldn’t risk any further damage. Not now. Damn walls danced, trying to hit him.

The sounds that followed were near; Hardison’s splashing seemed too far away though he was just one step away, just like his phone. The blue light faded, slowly. It disappeared completely when they reached the right passage, and he stopped.

“What’s wrong with your phone? Dead?” he breathed. He pressed his chest tighter, but he had trouble straightening up. Standing slightly hunched was easier.

Hardison’s steps ceased. A pause. “It works perfectly,” he said. “Eliot…”

He rubbed his eyes, but the darkness didn’t dissipate. “Yeah, I can see that, go on.”

Hardison came a step back and pulled him after him. He swallowed a hiss of pain, and tried to walk.

There wasn’t anything to say. So they said nothing.

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***

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Florence listened to Eliot through Hardison’s earbud; it wasn’t the same as if he spoke with his earbud on, she couldn’t decipher how his voice really sounded – but hearing it, it was enough. They were alive, and that was the only important thing.

Until Hardison cut them off.

“They just need silence,” Sophie answered her upset stare. Nate was gone, she lost him some time ago in the crowd. Parker was silent all the time. The two of them were alone here, but she felt secure with Sophie.

They were drinking and laughing with her crew. Sophie mostly; she only listened, using their attention set on the grifter to just be in the background, not participating too much. She was too scared to act, and the questions that would surely follow could be dangerous. Could lead to her breaking down in the middle of the party, and having to be taken away on a stretcher, turned into a slobbering idiot. She tried to imagine titles, and almost choked on her drink.

They filled a few minutes with a small talk, then their group started to dissipate. Some of them went to the TV crews for interviews, the others to see other people they knew.

She really couldn’t tell how it was possible for time to run too slow, and too fast at the same time. In reality, only minutes had passed after Eliot left them. She felt it like hours.

She took another cocktail, rebelliously choosing orange instead of the green. It reminded her of her rose – and drew a frown from Sophie.

And about at that moment they both saw the first dark green uniforms of Dvorak Security starting to mingle with the guests.

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***

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The right passage went slightly upwards. That was a good sign.

The lights hitting the walls behind them, not so much. The fact he could see those lights now, when the dizziness ebbed away, returned the advantage to good signs again.

Eliot stopped his musings when Hardison found a hole, some sort of opening; it looked no bigger than a closet, but it had a broken wooden door that could hide them in shadow when lights passed by them.

For a change, it was dry. They scrambled in and lowered their breathing. He couldn’t tell how many steps closed in, nor decipher how many voices were engaged in a low, muffled rant. Every damn thing around him was muffled. But they were close, the lights grew stronger.

The slits in wood gave him enough space to see the darker shapes when they darted by their hiding place.

Then his tablet gave out a ping. Incoming message. _Killed by Supernatural. Poetic justice, indeed_.

“No signal?!” he breathed. “Seriously?” The steps stopped, searching for the source of the sound.

“We went up a little,” Hardison muttered.

The steps returned. He still didn’t know how many of them were in front of their door.

“Stay here,” he growled, clutched the rotten door with both hands, and burst out carrying it in front of him, slamming into the first silhouettes. He knocked two off their feet, but he saw three more. At least.

Hardison followed him, _the_ _damn idiot_ , and there was no time for anything.

The guns first. He grabbed the nearest hand with a gun and pulled the man in front of himself, kicking the next in line. He pushed him towards others, following him, using their scrimmage to smash. He couldn’t risk weak blows now, he used his elbow. It made nasty sounds. But it worked. The two were knocked out cold, no chance of coming at him again. Hardison was wrestling with one, exchanging blows in a messy heap; they trotted out of the circle of the one remaining torchlight that lay on the floor and he couldn’t see them.

The blow that landed in his stomach almost knocked the attacker down, not him; he hit directly into the tablet and his shriek echoed through the passages. But, the two that had just been thrown on the ground were up. And hitting. The purple around him was back, and not because of the light.

He staggered under their strikes, losing count of the hands around him; no air, no balance. He was positive that one flew away, but which one he couldn’t tell.

He blocked a few hits, retreating, getting him together with each passing second – they were both facing him now. He attacked then, when they expected only staggering backwards, knocking the one down with two quick hits. Only the shrieking one was on his feet now and he could stop a second, take one breath, and calculate the best-

Searing pain in his back stopped him short. _A knee hit high on the ribs, left side_. No time to turn around and face the new threat, one arm wrapped around his neck and pressed, pulling him backwards. It pulled and stretched all the muscles in his shoulders and chest, that cutting almost finished him right there. He lost two seconds, engulfed in pain, disorientated.

A professional. This was a blood choke, not the air one, only amateurs put pressure on the trachea, it took too long. The forearm cut off the blood to his brain, and purple became black. He had only seconds.

He managed to throw the gun from the hand of the blurred shape in front of him with his leg, but it lessened his elbow hit backwards. Too weak to topple the attacker over; when he tried, the arm squeezed tighter, hoisting him from the ground.

It was bad luck that shrieking one was left in front of him – he was very careful not to hit the tablet again. He aimed higher.

All his hits slammed in his chest.

One furious blow after another, with rage and pain, with fists and knees, until the agony became almost absurd to endure… until he couldn’t breathe in, think, move. The only thing that held him on his feet was the arm around his neck.

Eliot tried to kick him with his leg – he just evaded it and continued. _No seconds left_. His grip on the strangling arm loosened, as he was falling deeper and deeper into oblivion. He stopped fighting it, lowered his arms to protect his chest – too late – and remembered his knives.

With the last traces of consciousness, as the black exploded into a bright red flash in his eyes, he gripped one knife and pulled it out. But the hit that should’ve been stopped with the blade never came – the silhouette in front of him jumped back with a surprised yell. A tremor of hesitation went through the arm that was killing him.

The red light hit his eyes once more – a real light, he realized dully, not just a side effect of his dying brain – and it gave him time, gave him _seconds_. He turned the blade and sliced backwards, blindly, and with a howl the grip let go. He didn’t fall. He turned around and knocked the man down with his head.

The last one didn’t wait for him to come closer – the red dot flickered above his terrified eyes – he just turned around and disappeared in the darkness.

He took one step. Wiped the blade on a dark green jacket. Put the blade back in the holster.

He bent to take a flashlight from the floor, to see where the hell Hardison was.

That was the last thing he remembered.

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***

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Florence sipped her drink, observing over the rim of the glass.

One of the closest Dvorak Security was the blond Red Guard from the underground garage. Eliot beat the crap out of him then. Now he looked at her, leaning on the column, and smiled directly into her eyes.

“I don’t like this,” Sophie’s voice was dark. Florence glanced at the woman who drove Lucille backwards on a forest path directly into the mobsters, with a glint of joy in her eyes. Nothing was glinting now.

“Maybe we should tell the others that the situation here isn’t, well… cocktail-y cheerful?”

Sophie thought for a moment. “No,” she decided finally. “They don’t need a distraction now, they’ll need all their concentration directed to them. This is not alarming yet.”

“Your call… but I can’t lie, at least not well. If they ask something, or notice, or hear…”

“Nag.”

“What?”

“When you want to hide something, attack with nagging. About anything. They shut their brains off then, you can pull anything you want.”

“Okay,” she smiled. “I hope it won’t be necessary, though… Dvo-Sec can’t do anything here,” she said, motioning with her head over the celebrities gathered all around. “They are just... I don’t know, intimidating us?”

“Any of us could think of ten different ways of ‘doing anything here’. It can be done. Easily, in fact.”

“You’re different. They are just… thugs.”

And they were everywhere, walking around, not in circles, that would be too glaring – but close enough to be seen.

“Never underestimate your opponents, Florence. Now, check all the Secret Service agents, and choose the cutest of them. Go to him and flirt.”

“What?! Why the cutest? Why not the most professional, or dangerous?”

“Because if you go to any other, every agent will think only ‘why is this woman distracting him’. If you choose the handsome one, they will think ‘lucky bastard, he did it again’.”

“I, I’m not good at flirting, I feel stupid. I will probably ask him does he come here often, or something equally moronic.”

When Sophie turned to her, she stopped. No, her babbling wasn’t the right thing to do now. And yes, they were in trouble, no matter how sure she was they were safe here. Sophie’s tension, so different from her previous light chatter, was radiating in a slow, heavy circles around her.

“Think of it as like writing a scene for the show. And go, now.”

“Yes, ma’am,” she sighed. That, if nothing, brought back a hint of a smile to the grifter’s face. “You know, I think they are just scaring us. They know their hands are tied here, so they’re trying to scare us and make us leave.”

“Maybe. But don’t forget that Don Lazzara’s brain is behind this. There’s much more going on here than we can see, so stay near the agents, or your actors, and don’t do _anything_ without talking with us first.”

“Where will you be?”

“Near. Don’t worry about me.”

Yeah, sure. Of course she wouldn’t worry. Someone who was terrified was physically incapable of worrying. She wondered if her hands would _ever_ stop shaking.

Florence grabbed her drink, put a smile on her face, and went to make a fool of herself.

She circled around the party, observing all the agents, until she found one that was handsome enough to be an object to half-drunk women at parties. She broadened her smile, but before she would approach him and start chirping, she turned around to check where Sophie was.

Her smile for a moment was absolutely natural, she didn’t have to pretend.

The grifter was standing close to Robert Downey Jr. She couldn’t see her face or what she was telling him, but she saw _his_ face. His mesmerized eyes, glued to Sophie. She held her hand on his forearm; _his_ hand was over hers, keeping it there.

She suppressed a chuckle and turned to the Chosen One.

“Yo, handsome,” she said, grinning maniacally. “Ya come here often?”

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***

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Eliot opened his eyes to the blinding light of a flashlight directed into his eyes, and he waved his hand to move it away. Whoever was holding it, obeyed and moved the beam off of him.

He lay on his back. Something soft was under his head. Something terribly heavy was on his chest.

He blinked once.

Tried to take a deeper breath to assess the damage.

Realized he couldn’t breathe in at all.

He jerked up from the ground, an almost involuntary move, uncontrolled – a coughing spasm tore his chest apart as if cleaved with an axe. Many hands were grabbing him, restraining his arms and he couldn’t fight it – no, stop, they were holding him, just that…holding him upright. He stopped the panic, stopped a twist that could’ve broken a wrist if continued, letting it go. He fought for air, trying to clear the blood from his throat and lungs.

Coughing hurt; the spasms sent knives through his lungs, and the metallic taste of blood sent him spinning back, into the same darkness. With same hands around him.

 _A full circle, at last_. A night came down. That Night came down.

He knew this would happen, and was prepared for it, but not now, not so early; he felt falling, and he fought it with all the rage he still had, forcing himself to breathe again. _Not now. Too early for dying_.

They dragged him from the place where he was laying, to sit closer to the wall; a good move, that should hold him upright, keep the blood away from his throat. They remembered.

He slowed his coughing as soon as he felt he could inhale after spitting out blood. Breathed, carefully, testing his breathing paths. The air brought a little clarity to his thoughts.

The inner stitches were torn apart now as well. That was much better than the last time. He _fel_ t better. He kept his eyes closed, diving deep, searching, probing, remembering everything from the time before, comparing and deciding. No chance of knowing exactly what was going on – the cut from the surgery was big, but the lung tissue was healed by now. The hits that he received couldn’t tear it, they just messed up the unhealed and already half-opened cut. The bleeding was internal, but it shouldn’t be too dangerous. For now.

Their voices were still muffled but he felt the panic in their tones.

He stopped coughing completely, and he took one deeper breath. It worked. The old, damp concrete was so cozy behind his back. He leaned his head back and continued to breathe.

What the hell was Nate doing down here?

He took one minute to just sit there with his eyes closed, putting his breathing in some sort of rhythm, testing every step of it. God knew he knew how to do it. Slow, shallow breaths were the least dangerous, but they didn’t provide enough air. Shallow but quicker were better, though they sent a dangerous tickling through his throat. He decided to maintain something in between, before any action that would demand more oxygen – but he would think about that when it happened.

 _Too early for dying_. He let out a small smile; this time, that thought was a decision, not just a mere wish.

He slowly moved his hand and took the tablet from his belt.

“Hardison,” he whispered. They both were by his side in an instant. “I have to check my message,” he paused to breathe in. _Shallow, slow_. Than he grinned at them. “Will you check if it's functioning?”

Hardison’s made a shocked, choked sound. “What - how- you weren’t- we thought-”

He held up his hand to stop his stuttering. “I know what’s happening,” he slowly said. “I knew it would happen during fightin’… odds were bad. But, for now, it _isn’t_ bad... Trust me... Okay?”

Nate crouched in front of him, and his eyes pinned him to the wall. “How long?” he asked.

“What?”

“How long before you lungs fill with blood and collapse?”

He thought for a moment, assessing all the signals. He had no idea. “Hours… maybe four hours. Bleedin’ isn’t heavy, and it’s slow,” he said finally. His words were slurred a little, he tried to get it together. “Enough time to finish everything… and slowly walk to Mass General.” He grinned again. “Besides… I promised Betsy I'd go there after the PVA anyway.”

Nate said nothing. He just watched him.

Yep, he knew why his words weren’t convincing, and why his grin hadn’t reassured him; he raised his hand and wiped the blood from his mouth and face with a sleeve.

“I’m better than the last time this happened,” he pointed out. “Sorta recovered. Much better shape than before, not so weak… and no hypovolemic shock. I’m functioning… and I’ll continue.”

Nate tilted his head. He almost continued explaining, when he got it. “You’re just forcing me to speak… to see how long I can talk before passing out? Will you stop with that crap if I start singing?! I said you could trust me, Nate! I ain’t repeating _that_!”

“Yeah, I hear you,” Nate said. “Though, we can continue without-”

“Stop. Now.” He was the hitter, he wasn’t for _sparing_ , not in shit like this. He cursed Florence and that she was right – Nate was about to change everything, or even pull the plug, because of _him_. And then he saw the worst thing – Nate’s fear, not hidden as well as he thought he hid it. As if they had learned nothing about his job in those five years, as if he trained them all for nothing. “You do your job, I do mine. End of discussion.”

One thing he had to admit – Nate knew when the final word was said. He got up, putting his earbud in. “Sophie, we are going up soon. Everything is okay. Anything new with you?” He listened for a few moments. “We needed silence, we weren’t hiding anything- okay, stop nagging, we’re here now. Let me know if anything changes and continue.”

He returned to them. “We have to go. They noticed more Dvorak Security around them, though they aren’t doing anything. And those around us could stumble on us at any moment.”

“The red dot?” he remembered to ask. “You grabbed somebody’s gun?”

“Not… exactly.” Nate showed them a little metal stick, and Eliot almost coughed again when he recognized Orion’s laser pointer. “I was too far away down the corridor, couldn’t get to you in time, and you needed a distraction,” Nate shrugged and pulled something else from the other pocket. “It was a red dot, or… this.” He held up a ribbon he used to play with the cat.

“Hardison, the tablet,” Eliot gave the thing to the hacker and closed his eyes again, preparing to get up. It would be a very interesting experience. Desperation, sneaking perfidiously, attacked when his guard was down, and he fought the bitter feeling of defeat. _No_. He was just slowed down. Defeat was far away yet.

He would simply get up, when the time came, and walk. And continue to walk, as long it should be needed. As he always did. _Nothing special about it_. He slowed his breathing even more, and it helped to control the pain.

Nate and Hardison walked away from him. He heard their quiet whispers, but he couldn’t decipher the words. Even better. Hardison was probably trying to convince Nate to drag him to the hospital. He listened to the surrounding sounds, searching for any clanging or splashing near them. Nothing for now.

They didn’t have the minutes he needed.

He slowly got up, helping himself with the wall, holding his breath. Waves of pain and nausea rushed again over him, and it took all his strength to straighten himself up. His suit was ruined, his white shirt was probably red, and surprisingly, the only thing that wasn’t torn apart and destroyed were Sophie’s pants. Just great. All three of them would have to change – and that meant going to the laundry room first. He would have to climb the ladders again. Falling down and dying instantly sounded like a great plan compared to that shit.

“When you’re ready…” he whispered.

They quickly came back to him. “Working,” Hardison gave him the tablet back. “It seems we are on the very edge of a signal. Read the message.”

“Important?”

“Just read it, okay?” Hardison’s voice sounded strained.

He looked at it, but he didn’t see any letters. He'd given Hardison a clean tablet. He returned it with a red smudge in the corner. He slowly raised his head to look at the hacker’s silhouette, barely visible.

“That one you fought was trouble?” he asked.

“No. Read the message, Eliot.”

He decided to let it go for now, he needed more light to see him better anyway. He checked the message and regretted he couldn’t whistle.

“Better than I expected,” he said evenly.

Nate sighed. “Okay, do I have to know what you are doing with Supernatural, or consider it something irrelevant, just a minor distraction?”

“Well,” he knew Hardison probably grinned at that question. “Maybe we should tell you.”

.

.

.

***

.

Sophie’s voice in Parker’s head stopped her lazy whirling on a rope fifteen meters above the stage. “If you’re not busy, join us at the cocktail party. Dvorak Security is gathering around us. Where are you anyway?”

“Monitoring the main stage, setting the playground.” She made one more circle; her electric blue dress with silver was invisible in the similar decorating lights all around the stage. She was just another sparkle. “They started letting audience in, everything is set for the beginning. Many frantic people running around, finishing the last details. I witnessed one heart attack.”

“Hostess dress, or technician uniform?”

“Dress. For the second time. I’m changing more than any of you, and Nate said I wouldn’t have to-”

“We can use one more hostess at the party. Just one mobster saw you this entire time?”

“Yep,” she pulled herself up, in the deepest darkness, and secured the rope. “Martin, in the slaughterhouse. Give me five minutes, and I’ll be there.”

Her bag and backpack with all her things would be safe here, she decided, observing the huge back part of the stage, going deep into the building.

She turned her back to the murmur of the incoming people, and slid down, sparkling as she fell, grinning all the way.

.

.

.

***

.

Eliot didn’t pass out climbing the ladders, but only because he was too pissed off. He had told them to climb up first, so he couldn’t fall on them if he slipped. They told him to go first so they could catch him if he fell. And they all held their ground, until they lost almost three minutes in snarling about logic, reason, clever things, and who was the bigger idiot.

He set his rage on ‘burn steadily’.

When they finally found themselves in the laundry room, he couldn’t tell who went first or how he did it, because he missed the better part of it.

He crawled two steps to the giant washing machine, literally crawled, not getting up. Sitting should give him a little rest. Lying down was tempting, but he couldn’t even dare try it now, it would start another coughing fit. Low, deep, shallow, steady, careful, he tried all sorts of breathing, and none of it seemed to work as it should have.

Nate pushed one smaller washing machine onto the hatch, blocking the way. Even if the mobsters followed them, they would lose time trying to push it upwards, maybe completely in vain.

“Seriously? Seriously?! Robert Downey Jr.?” Nate’s quiet voice sounded upset. “It’s because I was watching Kim Basinger, right?”

Eliot decided that _not_ putting the earbud back in was a tactically impeccable move.

He noticed Hardison didn’t try to help Nate, he sat on the floor and opened one of the laptops he brought. He studied his posture and movement. The dark gray suit was torn in places, but, though Nate turned on one of the lights in the room, he couldn’t see any detail. His fears were confirmed, though – now it was clear that was blood on his tablet. He would let it go, waiting and observing, but he didn’t have time for that.

“Hardison, cut us off from the girls again.” He waited until Hardison nodded, confirming they couldn’t hear them now. “Nate,” he waved his head to the hacker. “He's shot.”

Hardison raised his eyes from the laptop and glared at him. “Grazed,” he said. “The right term is _grazed_.”

“Take off the jacket,” Nate sighed, but his voice was the no-shit-allowed voice, and Hardison grumbled. And obeyed.

“Well, you were only half lying,” Nate finally said after he finished the inspection. “Grazed over your ribs – but another bullet went through your biceps. Losing lots of blood, we have to wrap it up, and very fast.”

“Two bullets in the backpack, huh?” Eliot growled; it took much less air than his normal voice. “If you’d told me right away, we could’ve taken care of-”

“Yeah, right, we had time for that. You sure you’re the right person to lecture someone on _bleeding_?” Hardison got up – he swayed, dangerously unsteady. His face was three shades lighter than it should be.

Fear fired his rage; he knew all the dangers of untreated holes in the body. “I’m not lecturing you on bleed- stop that shit, you should’ve told me and you wouldn’t now-”

“Guys,” Nate emptied one of the bags between two of them. “Stop that crap.”

“We’re screwed, so we can act accordingly,” Hardison hissed.

Oh yes, they were. Just when Hardison said that, it hit him – their chances were falling lower and lower each damn minute. It seemed it finally dawned on Nate, too, because he stopped mid step and turned around to look at them. Two bloody messes, barely able to stand, to say nothing about functioning adequately and reacting to the direct deadly danger. This time, the mastermind had one quarter of a hitter, and half of a hacker, if that much.

He returned Nate’s probing stare, his keen, attentive eyes – and this time he hid nothing. He wasn’t afraid of dying – he only feared letting them down. That was the thing that paralyzed him, the thought that no matter what he did, no matter what he gave, it simply wouldn’t be enough to get them all out of this alive. And he knew that Nate could read that in his eyes.

He didn’t breathe as silence spread. When Nate turned his eyes to Hardison, he slowly inhaled. The tension in the room was palpable.

Hardison didn’t squirm, he returned Nate’s gaze squarely.

For a moment, Eliot really thought that Nate would pull the plug, though he knew that they couldn’t, really, stop this and hope they would just survive, by happy chance. There was only one way out of this for them: destroying everybody else.

Nate’s face, much to his surprise, showed nothing at first, as his gaze traveled from one to the other. Then he grinned – but this time, it wasn’t his usual ironic smirk. It felt familiar, though very rarely seen… and after just a couple of seconds, Eliot remembered when this particular grin flashed the last time. A few minutes before they blew up their office in L.A, after the mess with the First David. He grinned like this when they beat up Sterling’s men – and then was just three of them, too. Sophie and Parker were on the roof.

Hardison remembered it as well, he could see it; his face softened, and one side of his mouth went up, in an involuntary dark smile.

He couldn’t believe when he felt himself grinning, too.

“So, we’re screwed?” Nate asked.

“Pretty much, yes,” he had to agree. But he couldn’t stop grinning.

“Abso-fucking-lutely,” Hardison sang. Then chuckled.

“Well, gentlemen,” Nate said softly. “If we’re about to go down, let’s go down… spectacularly.”

.

.

.

***

.

It was a strange thing; the fact they were screwed – confirmed by all the interested parties – brought relief. First, they all agreed that this was a three-man show; the girls would be kept in the dark. They didn’t need to know how bad off they were.

And that meant dressing up. After five minutes of manic grinning, accompanied by nagging in their ears – they were listening to the rest of the team, but they kept themselves disconnected – they were cleaned up and dressed up.

He finally had a black shirt. The white one was dirty, bloody and torn. Nate cleaned up his jacket as much as he could. Hardison’s was beyond cleaning, it had bullet holes in it; the hacker got one of the FBI jackets.

Hardison looked bad. “There’s buzzing everywhere,” he said at one point, waving his fingers around the room.

“Welcome to the club,” he muttered at that, while standing still, letting Nate check every detail on him. “You can’t do anything – you have to find a secure, quiet place where you can work and keep low. Somewhere they can’t find you.”

“And where is the best place to hide a man with two laptops, who will type and be busy?” Nate said. “In a room full of busy people with laptops. We’ll take you to the third floor, where all the media and control rooms are – but try not to jump into the live broadcast studio or something like that. Low profile.”

“Low, very low profile,” Hardison grinned.

At any other time he would snarl at that recklessness, but now it was appropriate. When you’re screwed, you can allow yourself to enjoy the process.

“You, stop grinning,” Nate said to him.

“Why?” he frowned. “Why is he allowed to-”

“You’re scaring me,” Nate said firmly, fixing his tie. Nate took one step back, glancing all over him, then repeated it with Hardison. He took Hardison’s bags and opened the door. “Ready?”

They all stepped out, into the corridor. And came face-to-face with two agents and Goon A, waiting for them.

But they kept grinning.

.

.

.

***

.

Goon A was one step behind and to the side of the two agents. Eliot recognized the two Smiths. They also recognized him, here again, with an unknown man and one of the guests they guided upstairs not so long ago. Of course it would be suspicious even if they hadn't been brought here by Goon A, who probably filled them with who knew what.

Only good thing about this shit was that Goon A had to maintain his Dvorak Security professionalism in front of the agents, and act like he was only about to arrest them.

He started to doubt his assessment when Goon A slowly pulled his gun from the holster. But he couldn’t simply shoot at them – they had to provoke it somehow.

Nate and Hardison immediately caught the same thing – let's not provoke an armed and trigger-happy mobster – which wasn’t so hard to do because they didn’t have time to stop grinning.

“Good thing you’re here,” Nate started to pour on his magic with a firm, hurried voice. “You won’t believe what we found in here! Let me introduce myself – I’m sure Goodwin forgot to tell you he would involve me in this. Inspector Webster, Boston State Police. May I show you my badge and credentials?”

Smiling Smith sighed and nodded – he was the one who whined about his senior agent’s strange behavior when they first met. But Scowling Smith looked suspicious.

Nate took one step forward. The agents and Goon A – Wayne Matthias Bauman, he remembered – were almost ten meters away from them.

He didn’t like Nate going too close to them, but before he could stop him, Goon A raised his gun.

He shot two times.

One bullet in the back of the Smiling Smith’s head. One bullet in the back of the Scowling Smith’s head.

 _What the hell_ … Even he stood frozen for a second. The sound of gunshots was still echoing around them when Goon A slowly wiped the gun of his prints and put it back in his holster. He took another gun from his pocket then and pointed it at them.

That broke his stupor; Eliot was too far away, and he was too slow to sprint and slam into him, but he threw the knife. It hit the mobster in the shoulder, jerking his hand, and bullet went by Nate, whizzing down the corridor.

“Get back!” he yelled, grabbing Hardison, pushing him into the laundry door. Nate was still frozen; it took another bullet to move him.

He sped up Nate’s retreat, grabbing the bags that still hung from him, whirling him after Hardison, while two more bullets slammed into the door. Too-fast movement set everything around him spinning, but he managed to follow them, and shut the door.

Three more bullets made holes in the weak door, but they pulled a washing machine in front of them, blocking the bullets.

All three of them leaned their backs on the wall by the door.This time, it wasn’t only his breathing that was messed up and ragged. Hardison sounded like he was close to hyperventilating.

“We are running out of,” Nate said quietly, taking one deep breath. “washing machines.”

.

.

.

***

.

Ladders. Again. This time down.

They tried to hurry up, all of them knowing – feeling – that though all this crap hadn't lasted longer than fifteen minutes total, it gave Don Lazzara time to arrange whatever he wanted to do at the cocktail party. All of them had their earbuds in now, in contact with the girls, though their input, when they weren’t talking with various _men_ , was mainly nagging about irrelevant things.

After Sophie had told Nate that she noticed more Dvorak Security around them, she didn’t mention them again, so it seemed that it wasn’t time to panic yet.

The only good thing about returning to the tunnels was that Hardison, this time knowing where he was, knew the shortest way to the next exit – something the mobsters didn’t know. They could hear them, though. Footsteps, clanging, even closer splashing – but Hardison had a route set in his mind and he avoided everything.

“They will, mark my words, eventually find it,” Hardison said as he led them through the dry passage that went straight under the Opera House. “There’s still who knows how many of them down here with us, and there isn’t very many of these passages. Very soon they’ll stumble upon it. But we’ll be long gone.”

Eliot said nothing to that. He was too busy with staying conscious. From time to time, when he heard only silence, he wasn’t sure if he was winning at all.

Nate was carrying all their stuff from the laundry room, walking slowly behind the two of them.

“Here we go – we lost only three minutes.” Hardison's voice was weak but cheerful. He stopped under a huge metal ladder.

Eliot looked up at the thing, desperation creeping into his mind.

“Wait here, I’ll go first and check what’s above us.” Nate put all the bags on the floor. “Try to rest, both of you.”

“I can tell you what’s above us,” Hardison said. “A few huge halls, two stories under the Opera House stage and backstage. It’s full of equipment and props for plays. In one hall they have a replica of the main stage, all glass panels, blue and silver, just in case something happened with the original. Unless Parker broke something on the stage, there won’t be anybody. We can go freely.”

Eliot was pretty sure he passed out three times during the climbing, because he remembered only the first grab of the metal ladder, one in the middle, when he wasn’t sure what he was supposed to move now, his arm or his foot, and where, and the end of it and Nate pulling him up the last two stairs.

Hardison wasn’t any faster either.

“Five minutes total,” Hardison whispered when he slumped on the floor beside him. “We’re doing great… we have time to rest a little.”

“Yeah, two minutes,” Nate said, standing above them, looking at the surroundings. They'd climbed into a giant equivalent of the room below laundry one – furniture, props, huge curtains, more furniture, cardboard walls with painted windows, everything full.

“Because now I know what Don Lazzara planned to do from the beginning… and it ain’t pretty,” Nate finished, turning the light off, leaving them in darkness.

That got them together faster than any rest could.

“The terrorism threat was never meant to catch us entering,” he continued. “He knew we would find a way. He made that threat to justify our deaths.”

“But why kill those agents?” Hardison whispered.

“Goon A took the gun that killed them. If he killed one of us, he would put it in our hand. He didn’t have a silencer, on purpose. Gunshots were loud, they've been discovered by now. Do you know that means? Two dead at the People’s Voice Awards, on top of the terrorism threat? Killers on the run, among guests? Their retribution will be… very nasty. Many famous people are in danger, nobody will hesitate a second. Everybody will shoot to kill. And when they kill any of us, they’ll run every search, finding our records. No charges for his men, they’ll be heroes.”

“And something _is_ happening,” Sophie said quietly. “I’m watching our agents, here at the party. They are all listening through their comms. And they aren’t breathing. Receiving bad news. Is there something worse than a Red warning alert, alarm or whatever? An Indigo one? If there is, they are just falling, or jumping into that, their eyes are glazed and pissed off.”

“Stay together, stay with Florence’s crew. We’ll join you in a couple of minutes. We have to go two stories up to the backstage halls – the buildings are connected, remember, we’ll be there in a bit. Eliot, are you with us?”

“Yeah, here,” he said slowly, not daring to try an actual sentence.

“We have to go,” Nate said to both of them, turning his light on again.

They said nothing, just scrambled to their feet.

“Nate,” Parker’s whisper was followed with a clinking of glass. “There are two stage elevators at the outermost back of the room – it’s near you, if you went through the passage on the blueprints. Big metal openings in the wall – it serves for effects, and taking the props two stories without carrying them. They go up to the hall with the stage replica, and up again – one goes directly to the stage. The other one, smaller, will take you deep behind it.”

“Somebody might be there,” Hardison murmured while Nate went to find the metal doors.

“Not that deep in the back of the building, it’s evacuated because of the bomb. And you’ll be on the same level as the main hall. Do it.”

“Found it,” Nate called them. “Go. We have to hurry now. Sophie?”

“They are moving. More agents are coming to the party… the Dvorak Security people are slowly retreating into the background,” she paused for a few moments. “The Agents are going to the TV crews at the velvet wall, they are stopping interviews.”

“One coordinator gave me my schedule,” Florence said equally quietly. “My award is supposed to be announced about thirty-five minutes after the ceremony starts. I have to be backstage with the coordinators and organizers, and the rest of the nominees, five to ten minutes before that.”

“You will be,” Nate said. “Now, everybody be quiet and observe. We’ll be busy walking.”

They had just entered the smaller elevator – it had blinding lights, and it was completely silent, but thank god there weren’t any mirrors in it – when Eliot’s tablet gave one more ping.

.

.

.

***

.

“Nate, listen to this,” Sophie’s voice in their ears was replaced by an official statement that echoed through the speakers at the cocktail party. “- _and we can assure you that there is no imminent danger. Police officers and Secret Service agents are here for your protection only. They will escort you to the Opera House, to the main ceremony_.”

“We have rising panic here,” Sophie hurried as the noise around her rose. “Heavily equipped people are entering the party, they are in black, I don’t know what it’s called… riot gear? Armored? They have helmets. No, not all of them are in black, there are more colors. But helmets are all around the place. Where are you?”

“Just left the elevator. We’ll take Hardison up to the third floor and hide him in the media center, and then join you.”

“Don’t, we’ll be led closer to you – you are now somewhere in the middle, between our buildings. Be there- Florence, stay close! Be there, and be in contact-”

Her voice, just like the murmur of many angry voices around her, was abruptly stopped.

Eliot looked at Hardison who was already working on his tablet. “Say something!”

“Not jammed… and she didn’t pull it out. I think she went into the ten meter radius around Don Lazzara,” hacker said. Then quickly continued. “Which probably means nothing – Florence is cut off as well, they were together, you heard her – in panic and mess, ten meters is nothing.”

Yes, in panic and mess, ten meters was nothing, Eliot had to agree… but not like Hardison thought. In that situation, he could go through those people, killing them one by one, and no one would notice him, connect him with the victims nor see him beside them; the bigger the mess, the better the playground.

“Parker, are you there?” Nate asked. “Can you see Sophie and Florence?”

“I just arrived, and they are okay,” the thief said quickly. “Agents are forming groups of guests to take them out, they are together, I’m on the other side. Hardison is right, Don Lazzara is just close.”

“Good. Now, change back into your technician uniform-”

“What?!” Parker hissed. “I just got here-”

“-and meet us somewhere in the Opera.”

“Not gonna happen soon – hostesses are gathered in one spot, we’ll be led there after all the guests leave. But heck, I’ll disappear.”

“Keep an eye on Florence and Sophie.”

“I will. They will soon – uh-oh. They are separated, they are breaking the groups into smaller ones – it’s really messy here, everybody is arguing with everybody, one woman is screaming something about her ruined entrance, a few women, and men, are crying… you won’t believe who is wiping his eyes as we speak-”

“Focus, Parker – can you see what route the groups were taken down?”

“Every possible way, every group a different one, they go left and right in the corridor and then I can’t see them anymore.”

“I could tell you that, too,” Eliot said when Parker stopped talking. “They’re minimizing the possibility of an attack. I have to go there, this opportunity is perfect for the Goons to try something. You take Hardison to the media center.”

“No,” Nate shook his head, returning the laptop bags to Hardison. The hacker swayed and lost more color from his face. “Two of us are needed there,” Nate turned to him again, his eyes darker than ever since this night began. “And needed fast.”

He stayed silent – but the blow already landed, he felt his heart missing a beat.

“Because, if they are separated, that means only one could stay in the group with Don Lazzara, with a dead earbud,” in spite of his visible urge to start, Nate said it slowly, carefully. “So, why are we still unable hear them _both?_ One of them is being grabbed as we speak. Her earbud is taken away.”

.

.

.

***

.

Buck was holding her hand with one hand, and patting it with the other, pouring out the reassuring sentences faster than she could follow. She let him do it for a minute, knowing very well that _he_ needed calming. “Okay, stop,” she growled finally. “You’re using my monologues, for god’s sake, that’s from the second season, fifth episode, when Vin got shot. _Stop_.”

“But there are killers around us,” he whispered.

She stopped a ‘tell me something new’, and smiled, patting his hand back. “I’m okay, my friend is here. Go with Vin and Chris.” _T_ _hey’ll take care of you_ , she almost added, but stopped that too.

Their group moved, and she lost Sophie while talking with him. She quickly turned around, and found her only three meters away, but with the line of armored agents dividing them.

“I’m a fucking celebrity!” a voice behind her rose in anger. “I won’t allow being pushed around with, with… lesser people!” That sounded like Colin Farrell, she smirked.

“Shoo, shoo,” she gently pushed Buck into the more masculine hands of his friends. It wasn’t that she wasn’t grateful for his care – she knew how frightened he was – but she didn’t need somebody who would see her eventual strange behavior. Like, let’s say, murmuring to invisible people.

“Nominees to this side, Mrs. McCoy,” one of the helmet-wearing-riot-something people pointed with his hand, reading her VIP badge.

“I have to be with my fr-”

“I’m sorry, ma’am, no exceptions, groups are formed. Continue this way, please.”

Arguing with authorities would only draw attention to her, so she sighed and followed them. It didn't matter that they were separated, nothing could happen to them now, amongst so many guards.

She'd only taken five steps through the corridor when she remembered that nowhere on her VIP pass was it printed she was a nominee. And she wasn’t a famous, well-known star.

But it was too late.

.

.

.

***

.

“I’ll be okay, don’t think about me, just do your job,” Hardison was already moving away as he spoke. “I’ll find a safe place for me and continue to work.”

Eliot took one step to stop him. Then stopped. He had to let him go.

He turned around, in the opposite direction, facing the connection between the two buildings.

“Sophie is with Don Lazzara’s group,” Parker’s voice sounded strangely quiet. Or maybe it was because of the white noise in his head. It roared. “Florence is gone.”

He looked after Hardison again – the hacker barely walked, he wasn’t in shape to grift his way through agents and media, he wasn’t in shape to _carry_ the bags. He shouldn’t go alone, still bleeding, without anybody near him.

Hardison went one way. Florence was at the other end. His mind whirled desperately.

Sophie and Parker shouldn’t be left alone either, Sophie especially, too close to Don Lazzara. She was a third party. He tried to assess the situation, to see all the odds, and the white noise covered everything.

 _You don’t need a hitter, Nate. You need a fucking army_. He was one. And he lied to him about those four hours he had left. He didn’t have that much. He had no idea how strong the bleeding was, how fast his lungs were filling.

He staggered one step left, then turned around, returning. He couldn’t cover them all, he couldn’t protect them all, he couldn’t even walk, he couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t-

“Stop!” Nate grabbed him by his shoulders, but he had enough mind left not to shake him. He just held tight, forcing him to look into his eyes. “Eliot, listen to me! Priorities. Imminent danger, not a possible one. Hardison will manage, we are after Florence.”

“I lied to you. I don’t have-”

“I know. We’ll simply hurry with everything. Think, Eliot! What are her chances?”

He focused on him. The roaring in his head lessened.

“Seventy-five percent chance she’s already dead,” he heard himself saying that without thinking… but knowing he was right. _You don’t need actual bleeding to bleed from your heart, Nate_.

“No. Wrong. This is not Don Lazzara,” Nate said.

“What-”

“Think! Don Lazzara said that he might even spare her tonight, he isn’t stupid, he doesn’t want connections with himself, nor too much attention. He wouldn’t grab a PVA nominee half an hour before the reception that award, risking a complete shutdown, lockdown, and investigation so close to him. He is a man who wears a protective shield, for god’s sake, he is almost as paranoid as you are!”

He blinked a few time. His words made sense. But it was much worse.

“So,” he breathed. “We have Knudsen and his deranged rampage. He wants revenge. He would kill her immediately. One corridor and two rooms away, and a bullet in the head. What’s good about the fact that this isn’t Dona Lazzara, Nate?! She is probably already dead!!” his voice rose before he could think about it, and a sharp stab cut him off. He tried to inhale, tried to stop coughing. Nate grabbed him tighter and turned him around, taking him to the wall to lean on it. He shook off his hands, and slowly slid down the wall. He didn’t care if somebody saw them. It was Nate’s job to say something that would explain this.

 _His_ job was to protect her. To protect them. He glanced after Hardison; the hacker was gone. Even he was out of his reach, too far away now to help him if they jumped him. He fought off hyperventilation, knowing it could kill him now… but he didn’t really care anymore.

“Will you lose time despairing and in self-pity, or you will help me to get her back?” Nate sounded calm. “I can do it myself, no problem, but I thought you might be interested in joining me.”

“Cheap,” he whispered. He wasn’t, in fact, despairing. He was just sitting there, too numb to think or feel anything. _You don’t need an actual shell for shell shock, Nate_.

“But working.” Nate waved his handkerchief in front of his face. “You might want to wipe off that blood, you look like a vampire in steroid rage. And keep it, you’ll need it later.”

“Hey!” a firm voice yelled behind Nate. An agent. “What’s going on in here?”

Nate turned around. “A wanted criminal on the FBI Most Wanted list, impersonating a guest, stopped in an action that could bring devastation to the PVA, caught and brought to justice,” his pissed off voice cut the air. “Or, a drunk guest who panicked and lost his way while being taken from the party? What do you think? Which version is more likely?!” his voice rose. “I surely know which one I would prefer, but can you guess which version I’m stuck with here? Do you want to join me in this honorable action? If not, get lost!”

“Geez, some people…” the guy raised both his hands in the air and backed away.

Nate waited five more seconds. “Now,” his voice gained a pleasant tone. “Where were we?”

“Knudsen,” he whispered.

“Ah, yes, Knudsen. She isn’t dead, Eliot, though she will be if you continue to just sit there.”

“You can’t know that,” he said, but he was already getting up.

Nate crossed his arms.

“Okay, how do you know that?”

“You _do_ remember him and how we caught him? He enjoys the play. And he still does, it’s in his core, no matter how pissed off he is. He is greedy, killing just her isn’t enough. He wants us all. And she is the best way to have us.”

He straightened himself completely, and let go of the wall, just watching him. Nate held up his hand, to stop him from talking, and tilted his head. “Parker, you’re back in your technician outfit?” he asked.

“Buttoning up,” she said.

“Great. Get rid of it, you will need the hostess dress again. I’ll explain everything soon.”

“What?!” her pissed off yell ended in murmured curses.

They weren’t listening to her anymore, Nate directed all his attention to him again, watching, observing, waiting.

“I will need a hitter,” Nate smiled finally. “I have a plan.”

 _You don’t need a bullet to kill you, Nate. Hope is enough_.

 

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	63. Chapter 62B

Chapter 62B

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***

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Sophie knew Florence had been taken when she looked over her shoulder and didn’t see her near her guys; they had a strict agreement she wouldn’t leave them if they got separated.

Their groups was still in the corridor, waiting to be led down the stairs to the lobby where an entire wall opened into three arched passages to the Opera House lobby, making it all one giant mess.

She tried to step aside, to put more distance between herself and Don Lazzara, whose back she saw through the people surrounding her, but a guard shooed her back. She checked her phone; nothing.

She was cut off from the team.

“I don’t know if anybody can hear me,” she said quietly, “but if you do, Florence has been taken. They led her into the back part of the building, she didn’t pass by our group. Go after her, I’ll be fine. I have my knight in shining armor to protect me from harm.”

She sighed, fear and worry whirling inside her.

She couldn’t do much, but she could, at least, make sure they didn’t have to go after her too. She took a few steps through her group.

“Good evening, Don Lazzara,” she whispered in his ear, snuggling her hand under his arm. “I’m so thrilled to have such a gallant escort tonight.”

Two of his goons standing near him tensed, but he waved them off, glancing at her. Her eyelashes danced away all her fear and she smiled at his surprised face.

“Inspector Lohman,” he finally said, then lowered his eyes to her ID badge. “Alison Hastings. This is… a remarkable performance, indeed.”

“Not so much,” her voice grew colder. “This is just autopilot, it doesn’t need any extra effort. If you’re lucky, you’ll see the real deal tonight.”

“I’m beginning to enjoy this.” His smile, she felt it clearly, didn’t have anything false in it. No posing, no acting, no false supremacy… he was simply being… him. A terrifying thought. She doubted all her tricks would work on this man, so she would use none.

“Why are you here?” he asked.

“Because that’s the safest spot in all of the two buildings. Your goons are occupied with Florence, but I am too near now,” she leaned closer, almost whispering. “We’ve been seen together, talking intimately. I know many law agencies who would start digging that up if something happens to me.”

“My goons are _not_ occupied with Mrs. McCoy,” he said flatly. Then his eyes narrowed, and she got it. Knudsen started it, not Don Lazzara.

“Oh my, what a nice little play we have here,” she smiled lazily. “Every Caesar has his Brutus, doesn’t he? You should’ve left him to rot in jail.”

“He is family,” he said simply. “So, Miss Hastings, tell me, how do you feel about loyalty? I want to finish this as soon as I can, and I’m open to negotiations. You can buy your life by helping me to speed this up. What do you oweto your… group? Gang? What do you call yourselves?”

“A family,” she smiled back.

“Ah,” he nodded. “Forget I asked. I understand.” And she knew he really did.

“Will I meet your boss tonight?” he continued calmly. “I learned a lot about his little bag of tricks; poor Robert fell on really disgraceful things.”

“Maybe, I’m not familiar with all his doings tonight. He does a lot of improvising, and I’m sure we share the same sentiment about people who change things every few minutes.”

“They are a pain in the ass.” His laugh was throaty but not unpleasant, he looked genuinely amused. But he stopped it right at the moment when she almost joined him; the sound fell to nothing and she held her breath.

“He is a deceiver,” he said it flatly, and his voice lost all the warmth it had before.

“No,” she whispered back. “He is the Deceiver. And you will learn the difference. Tonight.”

His eyes crawled over her face but she returned it with equal calmness.

He finally smiled, tucked her arm under his, patted her once on her forearm.

“Let’s go,” he said. “The group is moving, and the ceremony won’t wait for us. Do you think that Robert Downey Jr. will win The Best Actor category this year?”

They went through the corridor and she made piercing eye contact with every agent she saw on the way, sending them a derisive smiles; they would remember her later.

She couldn’t not think that she, maybe, made a terrible mistake.

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***

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When Hardison opened the door of the third floor, where the media center was, only silence greeted him. He stood, confused, catching his breath, fighting the buzzing that fought with the silence. What damn silence, this place should’ve been in an uproar by now. If he had to climb just one more stair, he knew he would collapse – pain was _so_ not his thing. He went back one step and checked the number on the wall. Third floor.

Unless there was something wrong with his blueprints – which wasn’t an option at all – something strange was going on in here.

This floor was the same as the two lower ones – broad corridor with many doors. He entered and turned the knob of the first door in front of him.

An explosion of sound and dozens of voices erupted through the door and he almost staggered back. Soundproof studios, right. Screens blinked with different footage, men with headsets were yelling to each other – the ceremony was starting. There was no way he could work in this chaos – he would have to yell too for the team to hear him.

He tried another door – the same thing, only with more light.

The third door revealed a smaller studio with reporters frantically typing on their laptops – that was the place he was looking for. But just for a test, he went to another door to check what was in there.

At first he thought it was empty; no sounds, darkness. But one entire wall twinkled in dozens screens. In front of it was a massive control set.

And one man sitting in the middle of that console.

Hardison watched the screens for a moment – the Opera stage, backstage, tables with VIP guests, ceiling cameras, audience cameras… he had everything. Complete control.

He was sure his eyes were gleaming.

He entered and closed the door after him. The man stirred and turned around.

“What is this?” he said. “I gave orders – no one is allowed to enter.”

At first, listening to his strangely sung words, Hardison thought he was drunk, slightly slurring, but then it dawned on him. A French guy. A famous one, the one with the _water_.

“So no one will come in here? Perfect,” he pulled out his phone and pointed it at him. “If you say just one word, I’ll shoot!”

The Frenchman squinted, aghast.

“Wha-”

“Silence!” Hardison pulled up a chair in the back of the room, where a few tables were. “Continue with your… gurgle…whatever. I’ll sit here behind you and watch. Your. Every. Move. If you say nothing, you will get out of this alive.”

The man stared at him a few seconds, then turned his back on him and his hands went over his console and numerous buttons.

Hardison prepared his laptops.

“Nate? All is set. Parker is changed, Sophie’s earbud is still muted, and I have Florence’s tracking device online. We can play.”

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***

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Two armored men took Florence in the opposite direction down the corridor, but nobody paid any attention to that. All the other groups were waiting by the stairs and elevator, near the party hall – the three of them went through the corridor deeper into the building, entering the doors with a fire exit sign. That let them into more corridors – dark, long and empty. They turned on lights as they went, taking her deeper and deeper into the evacuated building. And lower.

Florence tried to orientate, remembering Hardison’s blueprints. They were deep behind the Paramount building, and they were turning right, going into a similar part of the Opera House. And they climbed down, too. Probably already below ground level.

She had no bread crumbs with her.

They took her purse and earbud, but they didn’t search her. She knew what they were thinking: her dress left little to imagination, no place to hide a machine gun. They would learn not to underestimate _her_ imagination, she thought morosely, very careful not to lift her skirt too high.

She took small steps, buying time.

Somebody must’ve noticed she was missing, and Nate was probably already working on finding her.

Robert Knudsen was waiting for them at a door that looked much older than the rest – the room she saw behind him seemed to be older too. That showed her they were about to enter the vast back side of the Opera House, and her heart sank even deeper. The team would search for her around the cocktail party, they had no means to know he tricked them, took her all around.

Or they did. Hardison had mentioned something about putting tracking devices on them, though she was sure then he was just pulling Eliot’s leg. She didn’t have any, as far as she knew.

The two armored guards took off their helmets and she recognized Goon B and the older guy who was with him in the slaughterhouse, when they caught them finding the machine guns. She squinted, remembering her playing hurricane in front them. Eliot beat them senseless, and they were left in the woods – the perfect groundwork for a friendly chat. She really wondered if there was any mobster that hadn’t been beaten and left around, and pissed off at them. She bit her lip and hunched in her shoulders, trying to look smaller under their grim gazes. But she couldn’t not think how this situation would’ve been different if they had let her take the machine guns back then. Good thing she did something about that matter later.

 _Two knives. Idiots_.

Knudsen gallantly waved her to enter the room, and she got herself together, deciding how to act. Whatever she did, she couldn’t hide that she was terrified. The thing she _had_ to hide, was that she wasn’t dumb. Her mind whirled, untouched by the panic that dried her mouth.

“No,” she said, crossing her arms. “I’m not going in there.”

“No?” Knudsen snorted.

“I have to be onstage in thirty minutes,” she said almost gently, putting reason in her voice. “Your uncle said he wouldn’t kill me _now_. Whatever you think you’re doing, you’ll have to answer to him, and he won’t be happy when he hears about this. You’re putting him in danger. Take me back, and we can pretend this didn’t happen.”

His hand flashed. He slapped her hard, with the back of his palm, and everything around her rang.

Before she could think, her rage exploded – her _fist_ flew with all her strength, hitting him in his stomach, bending him over.

“You slap like a girl,” she hissed. “I’m not your bitch, Robert Knudsen. Slap me once more, and I’ll claw your eyes out. If you’re gonna kill me, do it, but don’t you ever lay your hand on me again!”

Oh shit. And she couldn’t even blame Eliot’s influence - this was her own seven idiots gnawing their way out of the place that created them. If she ever got out of this alive – and her season six seemed completely lost anyway – she should try writing some chick lit. Seven fighting macho guys were definitely ruining her feminine qualities.

She quickly erased all the fear and hate. _A little too late to act cute now_?

Knudsen straightened himself, eyes stricken with rage, but whatever he wanted to do or say, he changed his mind.

“You can bark as much as you want,” he said finally. “You’re not that important.” He waved a hand to one of the guys behind her: Goon B stepped closer, sweeping her with a probe. The thing emitted a ping when he went down her skirt and she froze in panic – but he reached under the seam of her dress, pulling out a small black object.

 _Dammit, Hardison_!

“A tracking device,” Knudsen smiled. “Still working, I’m not disabling anything. That will lead them directly after you. To me. All of them.”

“Perfect. The last time you did that, luring Inspector Lohman into a trap, you ended up in jail. Can you tell me what clever plan you made up _now_?”

 _Shit, shit, stop_. She couldn’t believe what came out of her mouth. He would kill her right here. For a moment he looked exactly like he would do that in the next second, but then he looked at his men and stopped any involuntary movement.

She quickly turned around, catching a ghost of a smile on Goon B's face.

“I’m under a lot of stress,” she murmured quietly. “The things I blurt out then are unbelievable.”

Yes, definitely a smile, masked by the tightening of his lips.

Something to work on. Her first try at grifting would probably end in shameful disaster, but she really had nothing better to do.

And she'd bought herself two minutes, so she could stop making him mad, and follow him into the room.

The main question, why the hell didn’t he shoot her right away, having her tracking device to lure the team after her, reeled inside her mind. She had to work on her _thing_ with clichés, seriously, because that troubled her so much that she almost asked him that.

They were entering the third room after the first one when she realized why she wasn’t nearly as frightened as she should’ve been – she kept waiting for Eliot to storm in every moment, beat them up in three seconds and simply take her away. And no matter that she was aware they would have trouble finding her, with all these sorts of jammings that she lost count of – she trusted them. All. They would find her in time.

 _Fascinating_. She pondered upon that a little, but then they reached their final destination – some sort of hall, almost as big as a warehouse, and filled with shining glass.

This was below the Opera, she remembered from Hardison’s explanations – a replica of the glass stage, glass panels and similar shiny things.

“Your crew was of the most help in finding this,” Knudsen said while they walked – all of them very carefully, the glass looked fragile and unstable – to the other end of the hall. “A few of my men that chased them in the tunnels came out through this hall – we didn’t know about it before. Now we have a perfect hidden way to get rid of the bodies. Your pretty blond head will soon swim down the drain, and we won’t have to bother with hiding dead people around.”

Well, this wasn’t so good.

“And even better – and why we are here – is that they’ll come to us here, we won’t have to carry them underground. That’s why Don Lazzara won’t be upset – no bodies, no crime, no connection to him.”

She lowered her head, but she glanced around. They didn’t turn on any lights in here, they used torchlights, and everything around them glimmered. There was a source of light at the place they were heading, though, at the other end of the hall.

She observed the huge glass panels that hovered over them, thinking about what would happen if she grabbed something and smashed them – they would probably all end up dead, cut to pieces when all that burst into sharp shards and fell on their heads. There wasn’t any way to hit them and run away fast enough.

She was helpless. _For now_.

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***

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The huge audience at the main Opera hall hadn’t noticed anything strange; the armored guards kept themselves out of their sight, and let the VIPs go to their tables alone, after they took them to the back stage.

Sophie still had no connection to anybody, and she knew Hardison couldn’t override Don Lazzara’s protection. Or they were simply occupied with getting Florence back. She hoped they were occupied with _that_ , and that they knew she was taken.

She took her place at Don Lazzara’s table. Twelve people were seated at the long oval table, and expecting him to say anything _evil villain-ish_ in front them, even without his shield, was stupid. While she was here, she would keep an eye on him – but as soon as the first chance occurred, she would have to leave, to get in touch with the others.

When an unfamiliar blonde girl came out on the stage, and the ceremony officially started, with growing worry she realized that her earbud would probably be useless here even if it was working – the applause and cheering covered all the sounds, making any conversation difficult.

Don Lazzara leaned over the table to her, but she barely heard what he said. She heard only _Florence_ and _nominee_. So much for recording, and making him say something incriminating about the terrorism threat, she thought as her fear grew.

“Oh, I’m not worried about her at all,” she yelled back, smiling. “Her dress is by far the most beautiful here; she will smash any competition.”

His eyes laughed, amused.

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***

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A big working table at the bottom of the hall had one table lamp with a long arm. Three men were sitting at it. Behind them, there was a scaffold that went up the back wall to the ceiling, two stories high.

Florence glanced at the things on the floor, eyeing them to see if there was something she could use as a weapon. They simply threw everything from the table, cleaning off it for their briefcase.

So, that was that CMS something that ruined all their chances of recording Don Lazzara. Nothing impressive about it. A stupid looking box with stupid buttons and stupid wires, and stupid… she stopped, sighed, and tried to calm down.

They hustled her into a simple wooden chair by the table. Goons stood at her side, keeping an eye on her, but she knew she would have time to destroy the briefcase. When she saw they were about to kill her, she would leap and throw it on the floor. But not yet.

They would come and get her out.

If any one of her seven guys were in shit like this, he would find a way to use something from his surroundings. She wasn’t that lucky.

The table was near the back wall, and she could see only the nearest things around her. The small lamp provided enough light to see around the table, but everything else was hidden in the darkness. Glass glimmered in the distance, reflecting the lamp light, adding to her confusion.

“Her phone, and her communication thing, Keith,” Knudsen gave the things to one of the guys at the table, the fat one. She wasn’t worried about her earbud – but Nate’s phone in their hands was disastrous.

She put her hands in her lap, and picked at her hangnail, radiating harmless and too-cute-to-kill vibes.

“Phone first, we have to give them time to notice she is missing,” Keith opened the phone, playing with the menus. They all waited. After just twenty seconds, the guy looked at Knudsen.

“There’s nothing in it. Two pictures of her. No call records, no messages, nothing. It’s useless. Empty.”

“What?” both her and Knudsen asked at the same time. “Let me see that,” she went on. She knew Hardison sent them all the escape routes, blueprints, plans, everything. Knudsen gave her the phone and she looked at _herself_. Her picture with the beanie, peeking out of Lucille, used in the incriminating article against her. Her mind skipped a step. Why would Nate have that picture in his phone?

“Oh, I see… I took the wrong one when we left home,” she murmured. “How sad it won’t be useful for you.” Knudsen didn’t buy her try to keep the phone, innocently looking away – he waved his hand and she had to hand it to him.

Why would Nate have his phone completely empty, with only her picture on it? She did recall him taking pictures on the Zakim bridge, to merge with the bystanders. That was something important, and she didn’t like-

“Hell no, people, you have to hurry! Our wiggle room is not enough,” Hardison’s voice, coming out of nowhere, stopped her thoughts and her breathing at the same time. She frantically turned around.

“And this is,” Knudsen smiled at her, pointing at the table, “how we’re gonna kill your entire crew.”

Hardison’s voice came from her earbud, now connected to the briefcase and put on speaker. Her heart sank. “They just heard what you said, you fool,” she whispered. “They won’t come, they know it’s a trap.”

“You think I’m an amateur? Our side is blocked, they can’t hear anything. To them, there’s only silence here, the silence of the earbud removed, not destroyed. And your bug is working, leading them here.”

“Shut up, Hardison, we can’t go faster,” Nate said. “We are going through the crowd, and we can’t be suspicious. Keep us informed if anything changes.”

“Well, everything changes every second – I’m watching all the cameras right now and man, Penny looks gorgeous as a host. And scared, the poor thing. Good thing the cameras sweep over all the audience, so I can see every- hah, Sophie just changed her table, Robert Downey Jr. waved to her to come over to him. Still too close to Don Lazzara, but it’s progress, right? We’re doing fine.”

She entwined her fingers to stop them from trembling. If only Hardison continued babbling about the ceremony, if only he didn’t mention anything relevant for their plan, maybe they wouldn’t-

Hardison’s chuckle filled the air around them. “I just saw Brewer at a table, and guess who is sitting next to him? Adam Baldwin! They are talking, and if that’s what I think it is, all of C4's future projects are doomed to die in the cancellation blast! Talk about justice!”

“Focus, Hardison.” Eliot’s voice sent her heart on fluttering spree; it sounded quieter than usual and more breathless. But he was coming to her. _He promised he would_. “Tracking device?”

“Not moving. She is being held at the end of the hall with the stage replica, and you’ll have to go through all that glass shit – well, there’ll be plenty of room for ninja hiding, so knock yourself out. I saw your redhead guy with the Lennon glasses again, he was caught on one of the camera sweeps – he's just standing there, near the backstage, and he looks like he is monitoring things. Definitely suspicious, you were right. Facial recognition showed nothing yet, but I’m working on it. In meantime, a more important thing just happened – I can proudly confirm that Bruce Willis’s shirt, though white, is still intact and not dirty. There won’t be any mayhem at the PVA – unless you create some. I’ll monitor his shirt, just in case, okay?”

“You are a complete idiot, ya know that?”

“Nope, not complete yet, still missing pieces to complete the set – but working on it, too. Nate, I regret to inform you that Sophie has her hand on Robert Downey Jr.'s knee. I’m afraid two billion people just saw that. What it is that he has, and you don’t? It’s the beard thing, I think. Maybe you should try to grow yourself one… or it’s just that he is interested in working for BBC?”

“Hardison, stop talking. Just stop talking, okay?” Nate’s exasperated sigh went through the silent hall. “We are near the hall, and we’ll need silence. Eliot, got your overalls?”

“Yes, the red-orange outfit, to be visible when I enter the hall. They won’t think a scene worker in props storage would be something suspicious. They’ll let me get close.”

Florence finished with her hangnail; a tiny drop of blood ran down her finger, and she slowly lowered her hand and wiped it on the chair. She ran her other hand through her hair, pulling a little. She couldn’t check if every hair left in her fist had a root with DNA, but it would do – she pressed a few hairs into the bloody spot on the chair. If they managed to kill her and get rid of her, this could be a clue to where she was.

But her knees were weak, as panic churned and knotted her stomach. They would be ready for him. She tried, tried really hard to tell herself that he would be safe – the moment he noticed his cover was blown, he would simply change tactics and disappear in this labyrinth… but then Knudsen waved to the guy that sat at the table with Keith.

He got up, taking something from the floor by his foot. A Chinese machine gun that Hardison showed them in a briefing; he was their sniper. Goon C. Knudsen waved to the scaffold and he quickly climbed up – not to the top of it, just three or four meters above their heads. He could see everything through the hall, to the other end-

“Doors, locked on,” he reported after a few seconds. “One step in the hall, and he is down.”

“Robert Downey Jr. is going onstage to give an award to somebody,” Hardison cheerful voice continued. “The guy is awesome – you know they have a sign language interpreter on the stage? Well, he just greeted the man with the _same_! Crowd went nuts, I can barely hear myself-”

“Lucky you,” Nate said. “We hear you quite well.”

“Fifteen seconds and I’m in, Nate,” Eliot said. “Stop talking, all of you.”

Fifteen seconds. Terrified tears made the darkness pulsate – she caught her breath to scream, yell, warn him, but one hand covered her mouth. It was so big that it covered a half of her face. Goon B lifted her little in her chair; she struggled, hitting him, but the older guy clenched both her wrists together.

She could barely breathe, a deranged panic whipping through her body, caught, immobilized, stopped – and the only sound she could let out was a low keen that didn’t penetrate the darkness.

“Five seconds,” Eliot’s raspy voice echoed in the silence.

They all stared at the other side, though they couldn’t see anything – too much glass between them and the door.

A clang in the distance, when the door opened.

Her inward scream almost covered another sound.

A low hiss behind their backs.

Their shadows changed, as another source of light joined the weak table lamp.

Goon B quickly turned around, as all of them did, turning her with him as well.

The elevator door – and she hadn’t even noticed there was an elevator on that wall – revealed a silhouette in an electric blue and silver dress, shimmering in the light. The gush of air that went through the hall when the door opened sent Parker’s dress and hair wavering around her. She raised her arms, while her hair and dress danced in that draft, and smiled at them, a Tinker Bell with her own source of fairy dust. Even Florence stared, not believing how beautiful she really was; the men around her gaped in awe, even Knudsen.

“Good bye, Robert Knudsen,” Hardison’s voice echoed again, low and dry, and deadly.

And then Florence saw something else, because only her eyes swiveled around searching for _him_ ; one more elevator, smaller, a few meters to the side of Parker’s. That door opened too. No lights in that one, no fairy dust.

The only thing that poured out of that opening was darkness… darkness and shadows.

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***

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Hardison could only wait now until they destroyed the CMS-19. His fingers were slow, as if frozen, and sloppy like he was drunk. Getting shot sucked.

He shook his head to get rid of the buzzing, but the sound didn’t stop. It grew stronger, as lights in the room became brighter. All the Frenchman’s screens flashed in bright red. Alicia Keys sang on the stage.

He got up, picked up one of his laptops and sat by his side.

He wasn’t a man who could be impressed with something technic-y, but when he saw what blossomed on the screens in front of him, he almost forgot about the fight in the stage replica hall.

Whirling fire tornadoes sprung from the middle of every VIP table, casting red shadows on the faces raised in awe.

 _Five cameras on that thing, laser guidance system, wires and pipes_ , he remembered Parker’s description of the mysterious things on the tables.

This was _water_.

He blinked, not believing it. Then he looked at the man’s face, frozen in concentration, as his fingers move over his console at the speed of light.

The fire tornadoes went up and up, for a few seconds standing immobile… then all of them bent to one side, in a perfect bow, and thrust into the middle of another table. And not a single drop fell on the guests.

He had seen perfect lines of water jumping from one bowl to another before, but this, this… damn, this was _something_.

When Alicia started with This Girl Is on Fire, the word _fire_ erupted – red glowing water fell from the ceiling, every line perfect, every drop controlled, like a curtain of fiery rain.

The audience exploded as well, the applause was so loud that nobody could hear the song. He would applaud too, if moving of his hands wasn’t painful. Instead, he pulled his laptop into the console, prepared to steal everything. Every. Damn. Thing.

The guy didn’t notice it, all his attention on his work. His art, Hardison corrected himself.

He monitored the copying progress, went in the back once more to check the footage he’d been working on, and returned so as not to miss anything.

The red lights faded, slowly, the fiery lines returned into the tables, and in mesmerized silence, his laptop’s window with their communication set blinked green.

Sophie was back online, too.

They had destroyed the CMS-19, and Don Lazzara was naked.

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***

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They didn’t know what would await them when they entered the hall; Hardison couldn’t break the CMS block on Florence’s earbud, though he knew that her side was muted intentionally. And speed was of the utmost importance.

Nate arranged two fast breaks that should scatter their attention for a few seconds, giving him enough time to act first; diverting their attention to the main door, and confusing them with Parker.

But Eliot couldn’t know if Florence was still alive. Hardison couldn’t tell him that. Her tracking device was not moving.

He was pretty sure his heart wasn’t beating at all while he waited for the elevator door to open, to take the first glimpse of the situation.

And the first thing he saw was her, held in the air, wrapped up in Goon B’s arms. Incredibly pissed off, deranged, wild-eyed, and all together beautiful. _And alive_. She was hitting her captor with her foot – and that gave him a weapon in the high heels/sneakers debate – trying to wiggle out from his grasp, keeping him busy.

He assessed the situation in the second step, still hidden with the dark. One fat guy – low danger. Knudsen at the edge of the light. The older guy and one more at the table were going down first.

His third step revealed a movement _above_ them and he quickened his moves. The table was the closest, he simply smashed guy’s head down on it. The CMS was second – he pulled all the wires from it, turned and slammed the briefcase into the older guy's head, sending him unconscious to the floor. He finished that move by thrusting the CMS up, as high as he could, to the scaffold above them. As pain sliced him, the wish to curl up on the floor and die almost knocked him down, but he staggered in the right direction. _Not yet_. A yell and clattering came from above, followed by a fall – Goon C landed directly in front of Parker with a loud _thud_ and a cloud of dust. Her hand sent sparkles; a buzzing tazer sound was the only thing to hear.

Three seconds, three men down. He locked the pain and weakness back deep into his brain. Any pause now meant them bursting out in full force, so he moved, not daring to even slow down.

Goon B pushed Florence away, but he paid no attention to him, going right at Knudsen, sending him to the floor with two nasty elbow hits to the face.

The fat guy was standing now, with both his hands up in the air – Parker was eyeing him with her tilted head. He saw no more; Goon B was quick and frightened, a nasty combination that occupied him – but he knew what happened when he heard buzzing and a heavy fall behind him.

He'd fought Goon B so many times already that he knew his every move. Every other time, he would just stay uninterested, watching him flapping around him, and then place one blow to end that, but now… it took fifteen long seconds before Goon B went down, finally. His strikes were weak, every hit almost strong as a slap. Damn, he was deteriorating too fast.

Two shaky steps took him to the scaffold; he grabbed the metal for support, fighting an urge to cough. _Just breathe_. _Secure the perimeter. Dismiss the guns_. They were down, but this wasn’t finished.

After just one step back to the fallen people, he knew he would have trouble with simple bending. “Nate, come here,” he whispered, swaying as the room swayed with him.

“In a minute, coming through the glass,” came the reply.

Only then did he dare to look at Florence, to see if she was okay, unharmed.

And what he saw hit him harder than any blow could. Her face, looking at him – with ruined makeup, with streaks of black tears and red bruise on her cheek – blossomed in a smile, a smile he was certain he would never see; that brilliant, dazzling, really _happy_ smile he saw on the recording. Her eyes, still with tears in them, looked at him as if… He stopped that, though with effort. And he stopped mid step.

It was for _him_. She smiled at him as if-

“Eliot!” Parker’s voice was sharp with warning; that moved him from the stupor. He quickly turned around to face the new threat, turning his back to Florence.

Knudsen was getting up, his hand groping in his suit in search of weapons. Four meters distance. He reached for the nearest chair and-

“Not that chair!” Florence’s cry came the same moment Knudsen pulled a gun out, pointing it at him. What the hell… he reached for another chair. “Drop that gun or I’ll shoot you!” Florence’s voice rose in fear, fear and anger, and Knudsen froze for a second, looking past him, at her. Eliot took one step closer, but Knudsen didn’t react to him – he bared his teeth and finished his move, turning the gun at _her_.

The thunder of the bullet sent all the glass clinking, and Knudsen roared, staggering back, hit by the chair he whirled at him. And by the bullet that whizzed between the two of them, finding his upper shoulder. Knudsen managed to fire once, reflexively, his bullet flying over their heads. His deranged eyes flashed once, and the last thing he saw was him melting into the darkness.

He slowly turned around.

Florence held a gun with her both hands, with a stricken face. Her Colt automatic that Nate brought into the apartment after the first night incident. But it was empty then.

“Shoes,” he whispered. “You went for fucking bullets! Where did you-”

She lowered the gun. “Duct-taped it on my calf; the skirt is wide, it was invisible. I _had_ to.”

Parker passed by her while he only stared; the thief gently patted her shoulder, with an approving grin, before she got busy with the wires on the table, disconnecting her tracking device and earbud from them. But Florence barely acknowledged that, still staring in his eyes in shock. “I hit him,” she whispered. “I shot a man.”

A shadow entered their eyesight; Nate slowly came to her. He waited for her to see him, then gently took the gun from her hand.

“I heard rustling, he is not dead,” he said, taking off his red-orange jacket, putting it around her shoulders. “Eliot?” his eyes went over him, and that moved him.

He didn’t dare, actually, to take a step, not knowing how it would end.

“Parker, get back in the elevator,” he rasped quietly. “He’s mad, he’ll come back. Nate, take Florence. I’ll find Knudsen, we can’t let him stay here-”

“Parker, take that chair with you,” Florence whispered. “I smudged my hangnail blood on it. DNA. Get rid of it. I thought-”

Nate nodded. Parker rolled her eyes but took the chair and returned to the elevator. When her doors closed, only the table lamp gave some light, and the shadows deepened.

“Change of plan, Nate,” Hardison’s low voice said. “You have a party coming to you, they are up, above your heads. Get in that elevator and stop them from coming down. I don’t think that the gunshots were heard one story up, but if they come down… they’re regular agents, not mobsters.”

“Got it. Florence, come.”

She went to the table and took her purse, earbud and tracking device…and her phone. Nate’s phone. She looked at Nate then, one long, inquiring look, worried questions whirling in her eyes. “Nate, why did you have my picture in your-”

A bullet whizzed between Nate and Florence, coming from the dark, and her sentence ended in a scream. She ran to him, passing through the lit circle, before he could stop her. “No, stay with-” shit, she was now too far away from the smaller elevator.

“Get down!” he grabbed her and pushed her into the darker shadows, as another bullet whizzed through the lit circle. They had no time for this.

“Nate, go! Get rid of her gun, and clear the way. I’ll bring her up.”

“We have nineteen minutes to get her to the stage. Keep that in mind,” Nate said, waiting for a chance to reach the elevator.

Eliot took a few steps to the side, going to the edge of the light, trying to see movement in the lights glittering deep in the hall; when one shadow moved, he moved too.

He heard, behind his back, Nate reached the elevator door, the soft hiss meant he was safe.

“You stay down,” he breathed, barely audible; if she put her earbud in she would hear him.

“Are you counting his bullets, or you want me to count them?” An equally low voice came to him, and he almost smiled. He noticed that Hardison cut all the other earbuds off from theirs to give them silence; if something important showed up, he would tell them, but for now, they could hear only each other, and silence on his end of the line.

A shadow was moving between the glass panels.

He took one step towards it. His legs gave way and he ended up on his knees, blinking the darkness from his eyes. _Shit, no, not now_.

One more shadow moved closer and she knelt beside him, holding him, keeping him upright. “We can just hide. He won’t find us,” her soft whisper tickled his face; she rested her forehead on his cheek. “You don’t have to do anything else. I don’t _want_ you to do anything else.”

He didn’t have enough air to speak. He followed the shadow’s shadow with his eyes over her curls.

“He has at least five bullets,” she went on.

 _Nine, actually_.

And he was too weak and too slow for a long chase; bursting onto enemies with quick hits, just a few seconds long, he could endure. But it spent him completely.

Kneeling helped. The lightheadedness ebbed away, and he slowly caught her hands, removing them. “He can’t be left here,” he breathed. “He will kill, sooner or later. I have to finish the job.”

Leaving her here near the table, with the knocked out mobsters that could come to sooner that he thought, wasn’t the best option. Taking her with him toward an armed lunatic would be much worse.

But thinking about what was happening behind his back could be fatal. He had no time for mistakes now, no strength for repeated steps. He wasn’t sure if the glass was shimmering when he slowly hoisted himself to his feet, or if his eyes were betraying him. Everything seemed to be off of its axis a little, moving slowly in waves. No, definitely no time for waiting.

He took her hand. “Behind me,” he whispered, and entered the darkness.

He knew what to do.

Only twenty careful steps brought them right among the hovering panels. She held his hand tight and walked closer when the darkness closed around them. Darkness, with occasional sparkles of light all around, evenly near and in distance. His eyes were treacherous, so he tried to listen. They could hear heavy breathing in front of them, more than fifty meters ahead. He tried to slow his breathing, into shallow and soundless – but with little success.

They stopped when the panels made a tunnel – workers had put a few of them parallel to each other, and they were between two walls of glass, with Knudsen somewhere at the other end.

“Careful now.” He let go of her hand and went a few more steps closer, without a sound, feeling the glass with his fingers; she followed him, breathlessly.

The middle of the panel would be perfect, but it would bring him too close to Knudsen. This would do. He had to have enough time to retreat.

He stopped, closed his eyes and concentrated for a few moments.

Then he hit the glass with his fist.

He wasn’t sure if the cracking sound was the glass, or the bones in his hand, and he let out a hiss of pain.

The shadow, deeper, stopped and moved towards them.

“What-” her eyes caught a sparkle, lit with confusion.

“Not now,” he breathed, putting her behind him; he retreated step by step, not turning his back on Knudsen’s silhouette, going back the same way they came. When he felt the end of the glass, he stopped.

“Hardison,” he whispered. “I need a loud ping.”

Five seconds, five quick heartbeats, and his tablet rang. The sound was shrieking and loud in the silence.

Knudsen ran to the source of sound, his shadow moving faster and faster, until he could see their shapes, and until they could see the gun he was pointing at them. He could swear, when the light from the table, reflected, fell on his face, that his eyes were even madder than when she shot him.

“End of the game,” Knudsen snarled, now only five meters away, aiming his gun right between his eyes.

“Exactly,” he said. And knocked the panel with his knuckles.

A high piercing sound screeched around them, and he quickly pushed Florence backwards. The crack started in the middle, where Knudsen stood, and exploded toward the ends. It gave them time to move away when the panel shattered, hurling huge shards everywhere.

Knudsen’s scream was overrun with the sound shredding and bursting.

And then silence.

“Eliot??!” Hardison’s high pitched voice screamed in their ears. “What the hell just happened- talk to me- what-”

“Knudsen’s dead,” he whispered. “We’re okay.”

“Oh,” Hardison lowered his voice. “I knew that, I was just startled by the noise. Fourteen minutes until she has to go onstage. Can you-”

“No, not yet,” Nate’s voice sounded almost like whisper too. “I’ve blocked both elevators, nobody can come down from that side. Nor you can go up.”

“Good job. Casually walking from the basement halls…” he stopped to breathe, saw Florence’s quick glance, then continued in one go, “up to the stage will surely add the edge to my performance tonight.”

“It was that, or ten agents coming down. Now listen. Go slowly to the main door where I entered to draw their attention, and sit and rest for five, ten minutes. I have to go to that side and clear the way. We can’t risk any more obstructions while taking her to the stage.”

For a second he asked himself if Nate really needed those minutes to clear the way for them, or he was just forcing him to rest. He couldn’t tell from his slightly hurried voice.

“By the way, do you still have your knife holster?”

“Yeah. Just one knife, though, the other one is in Goon A. Why?”

“I thought of something.” Nate’s smirk could be heard clearly.

“Nate…” Florence’s restrained voice caught his attention.

“Not now, Florence,” Nate cut her short. “Sit with him. And _think_. We shall talk when you join us up here, okay?”

“Okay,” she whispered.

She took his hand then, taking him a few steps aside. He followed, concentrating on putting foot one in front of the other. One step, two quick breaths, repeated, while he listened Nate’s quick explanation about the holster.

By the time they reached the opposite side of the hall, he was shaking from a cold sweat, and only gritting his teeth and forcing himself to walk got him there. No will, just inertia, and the thought that if he fell, he would never get up again.

This shit wasn’t finished. They needed him.

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***

.

Florence found a spot near the door, a mass of old curtains, where they could sit without her ruining the dress. She spent one minute just sitting beside him, holding his upper arm with both hands, resting her forehead on it.

They both needed this break. Everything was moving too fast, she simply couldn’t catch up. Her thoughts and emotions, completely messed up, were hopelessly delayed. She wondered when the real fear would strike, when she finally processed everything that had happened in the past ten minutes. But now, in this silence, she felt slowing down. Her heartbeat followed. Holding him tight helped, brought security.

He was cold to touch. She would welcome the fever ebbing away, but this sent a new chill through her bones. She opened her eyes and lifted her head a little. His eyes were closed.

Nate’s phone, set on the floor in front of them, radiated an eerie blue light so she could observe him freely, and everything reminded her of their first ride in Lucille after the slaughterhouse. When he touched her face for the first time, with frozen fingers, too weak to speak more than a few sentences.

She was shaken more that she would ever admit to herself because the mere memory of the sadness in his eyes choked her with tears. And he spoke of strength then, for the first time. Now she understood why he said she shouldn’t ever be forced to need real strength. It destroyed minds and hearts. Leaving scars. _I shot at a live being_.

And she just sat beside him, helplessly watching his closed eyes, not knowing what to do, how to help, how to make him better.

She put her hand, lightly, on his chest, to feel if he was still breathing. He was; but in the moment he felt her touch, he changed the rhythm, going with slower, quieter inhales.

“You aren’t unconscious? You’re awake?” she whispered when she couldn’t stand his absence anymore.

“Still here,” a ghost of a whisper. He didn’t open his eyes.

Was now the time for the _keep him awake_ mantra? Or that would just ruin his obvious attempt to recover a little before Nate told them they come go out?

His posture was changed, too. All this time, his pain was masked by a tense, protective stance, his arms always near his chest to guard the wound, and to keep the right arm as immobilized as he could. She could read his pain level only from the tension in his shoulders, she didn’t need anything else. God knew she saw all his tries in those past few days. All that time, accumulated energy whirled inside him, ready to strike if needed. He even used that pain to keep himself on the edge, always awake, attentive.

But now, he just sat, leaning on the wall, completely drained. She would call it slumped if that word wasn’t so inappropriate for his swift grace, even when motionless. That change was disturbing her; she felt something crucial was missing.

She knew her strength. Yet, for the first time since they met, she questioned _his_.

She tried to say something light and encouraging. Her voice came out a small squeak. But it did something; a half smile quirked across his lips, and vanished.

She cleared her throat and started again. “What did you do with the glass?”

“When I smashed the window in apartment, I was angry,” he said quietly. “That first hit. But I continued. I kept destroyin’ it, to see if I could get the control back. I could. You can break glass without breaking it.” He paused and continued quieter. “We needed time to retreat safely.”

She took his right hand to see what he had done to it and he winced. No cuts… but she couldn’t tell if something was broken. It looked bruised and bluish… but everything else did, too.

“That’s another funny cliché,” she said, putting, with an extreme effort, a note of cheerfulness in her voice. “Every hero will suffer terrible injuries during a fight, and continue as if nothing is happening, but as soon as someone tends their wounds, they wince and flinch and moan. That irritates me the most in movies.”

“Because you don’t know why that is,” he smiled. “Find out for yourself, I won’t tell ya.”

“You’re worse than Nate, he also just directs me and leaves me to figure out…” her voice trailed into silence.

He opened his eyes then, and she stared into his half-there blue eyes. Though blurry and pretty unfocused, she saw caution in them.

She let go of his hand, lowering it gently on his thigh. Then she pulled her earbud out.

“What has he done to me?” she asked, numb-brained. “He never does anything by chance, every damn move he makes has some purpose behind it! His phone had nothing on it, did you know that? Only two things, two pictures of me in Lucille on Zakim Bridge, the ones used in the article that almost destroyed me!”

He said nothing, just kept watching her, but she saw the lines in his face grooved deeper.

“It wasn’t an accident,” she whispered. “When he staggered and almost ended up in the water, pulling me with him… _accidentally_ sending my phone into the water. And giving me his, prepared for me. He has another one, right? He directed me to this, to those pics, knowing I would follow that.” She stopped, when all the pieces finally started to fall into the right places. “ _Nate_ wrote that article,” she said finally. “He gave everybody an insight into everything we did, exposing me as... as…” Her voice broke. She pulled away from him and curled into a ball, wrapping her arms around her shins, hiding her head in her knees. But that couldn’t protect her from the enemy inside, her own frantic thoughts.

 _Blood, betrayal, and death_. It was no use that she didn’t let him watch that last episode, when it followed them here, nevertheless.

What fucking strength, what fucking courage did she need to have to get through this? And what was _thi_ s, anyway? She had no idea what was going on, and she wished she could just stay here and cry, and stop thinking about anything. She'd been used as something, Nate used her for an unknown purpose, to gain who knew what – she was a mere tool in his hands.

She felt Eliot’s eyes on her, and the tears poured out; _he knew_. He was in on it from the beginning. They all knew, and kept patting her on her head, like a slightly demented child, pitying her in silence. She _trusted_ them.

She couldn’t stand his eyes on her, she pulled the red-orange jacket over her head, hiding herself, wishing she could just disappear and forget all about them, all about the trust, love, everything false, just played, like they played their marks. She was a mark to them, nothing more. She was…

The red-orange jacket.

She stopped spiraling in despair, and caught her breath.

Nate wore that jacket. He entered this door, drawing the sniper to himself, to give Eliot and Parker time to attack from the back. To get her out.

They came for her, toward the armed mobsters that were luring them into a trap, armed only with one knife and a tazer. For her.

Yep, that was a betrayal of biblical proportions. She was losing her mind, definitely.

“Is there any fucking question here that has a simple answer?” she screamed, uncurling herself, throwing the jacket off her shoulders.

Her anger brought a little relief to his eyes, she saw it clearly. _What would have been the wrong reaction_?

He thought a moment and then carefully asked, “You really expect the words _simple_ , and _answer_ , put in the same sentence with _Nate,_ to make any sense?”

She glared at him. But she welcomed this pissed off confusion, embraced it with joy; anything was better than betrayed despair.

“He better have some good answers – I’ll wait for an explanation,” her voice broke in angry tears and she choked. “…as usual – but this is driving me nuts. This isn’t, trust me, a good time for, for, for a roller-coaster ride, up and down, up and down, all in three minutes. I c-can’t follow _that_.”

Eliot tapped his ear. She cursed him; Nate; their earbuds; Hardison; all that confusing shit. Nate could hear her every word through Eliot’s earbud. She pushed hers back in her ear and squeaked. A ruptured eardrum would be the crown of this crazy day.

“There, there,” Nate’s voice was colored with a smile – and it was a real smile, not that annoying smirk. “Calm down, pixie. It had to be done this way, it was better you knew nothing.”

“I still don’t know anything,” she growled. “Except you’re driving me around blindfolded.”

He laughed. “I called it a Siren’s Song – though, I have to admit, I chose the name because it sounded good. Mysterious. Calling it the Peacock Mating Dance diminishes the grandeur a little, don’t you think?”

“Wait, slow down, I’m overwhelmed by the mass of exact, concrete, detailed information you’re pouring out.”

He laughed again, the bastard. “Patience. It might not work. In any case, I’ll tell you what that was supposed to do… but you have five more minutes, use it to rest. You can rage as much as you want later.”

He said no more.

She took one long, calming breath… relief, mixed with annoyance, was good. His laugh calmed her fears, though not all her doubts.

Five more minutes, she repeated. Yes, she should use that to calm down, to close her eyes, to remind herself that she was going onstage… and that she didn’t have a speech ready.

Fuck the speech. She pulled the earbud out and returned closer to Eliot, putting the jacket over his shoulders. His coldness was scaring her. He reached for her with his left hand but stopped the move, as if something cut him; she listened to the sound between a cough and clearing his throat, with growing worry.

“You know, if you caught a cold, on top of all this, Betsy will kill you. Literally.”

He took one jagged breath, and masked that with a quick smile.

“Right, a cold,” he said softly. Slowly, as if he had to think about every word. “Too much rain these days.”

Light words, light tone, and a smile. His correct reaction to her words should’ve been snapping and growling.

He was slowing down, she realized with a sudden stab of real fear. _Stopping means death_ , he had told her. Sophie’s words, above all else, whirled in her mind – _he is waiting to pay for everything he has done, he is waiting to be killed_. Redemption. Blood, betrayal and death. The end of all things. _He was slowing down_. Redemption. He was slowing down. Waiting to pay. Redemp- She almost put her hands over her ears to stop her frantic thoughts, going into one more desperate spiral, but she had no strength left.

Refusing to lose didn’t work if you'd already embraced the loss.

She had no more tears to cry, her eyes ached, dry, as she stared at him. At the loss in his eyes.

He raised his hand and brushed his thumb over her cheek, where Knudsen slapped her. “Sophie,” he said quietly. “Come backstage… if you can. A makeup emergency here.”

His eyes trailed over her face, slowly, as if remembering it. Something deep inside her wailed in terror.

He loved her.

And he was saying goodbye.

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.

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***

.

“Nate, if I remember correctly, we did mention a couple of times the phrase, ‘failing spectacularly’?” Hardison said when he returned to his back desk, leaving the French guy to concentrate on his next move.

“Yes… about that…”

He stopped mid step. “Hell no, don’t, just don’t-”

“It’s not a completely _new_ plan – it’s more adding one layer of Plan G to the existing plan.”

“Are you talking about Season Six shit, or Mobsters Inc.?”

“Season six is beyond any influence now, what’s done is done – nothing more to add. All we can do now is wait to see if anything happens.” Nate paused and Hardison waited, sighing in advance. “Any success in tracing the terrorism threat call directly to Don Lazzara?”

“Still working on it. I think I’ll make it, if I have enough time. And time is, sorry to remind you, something we don’t have. We may _fail spectacularly_ at connecting him with terrorism. You know that? And without that, we have nothing, everything else I’m trying to put together will crumble. He’ll walk.”

“Just continue. And while you work on that, here are a few details that you can add to that…”

Hardison ran both his hands through his hair, and almost passed out, forgetting the hole in his upper arm. He slumped in the chair while the laptops danced in front of his eyes.

“Nate,” he stopped Nate’s explanation. “When you start to work on the retreat… add an extra ten minutes for me. The room is… whirling around.”

“Okay,” Nate finally said. “By the way… Eliot’s Supernatural mess…”

“Counting the minutes until the explosion.”

“Timing?”

“Adjustable.”

“Sophie?”

“Still glued to Rob… still sitting by… still sitting. Not a good time to leave the tables and go backstage, she has to wait until they finish with another award and speech.”

“Don Lazzara?”

“Enjoying the ceremony.”

“Good. Continue until I tell you to stop.”

“Hate you.”

“I know,” Nate smirked. “Cheer up. You can do it.”

“Still hate you.”

He put his elbows on the table and held his head for a moment resting on his hands. He was tired. And thirsty. And scared.

His head was already spinning with the amount of material he'd collected – working on it, and making something useful out of it… it took time. And everything depended on that, all their lives.

One day, he swore to himself, he would gather them in front of his screens, and explain, thoroughly, everything that he had to do at the same time, not to mention their insane demands that they jumped him with regularly, above all that he already had in front of him.

But not now.

He shook his head to get together, and started to type.

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.

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***

.

Nate did clear their way. Eliot expected to meet at least five agents who would question his bringing a VIP guest from the basement levels up to the Opera House, but they met none, except two scene workers who were searching for something and paid no attention to them.

Just in case, Florence hung onto his hand, giggling while they passed by them. She proclaimed that as her first grift, sounding pretty proud of herself, but she hadn’t let go of his hand. She held his forearm with both hands, he felt her fingers clutching at it, as if someone would tear her away from him.

He didn't have the heart to tell her that her second attempt at grifting, when she intentionally slowed her steps down, though their timer was ticking, wasn’t that successful. The elevators were still blocked, and Nate probably directed all the underground-stationed agents to solve that problem, but this walking, after the rest, wasn’t impossible for him. He could do it, so he was doing it, in spite of her slight limping that should’ve give him time to recover.

They had one more stairway to climb to enter the vast block of rooms and corridors that led to the stage and main ceremony, and she remained silent. He could feel her inner babbling, all the frantic thoughts that ran behind her eyes while she watched him. Yet, her feeling that something was wrong with him, and _knowing_ exactly what, were two very different things. One wasn’t acceptable.

He had to return her to the award, the PVA, her show, to anchor her into the ceremony, but he was too shaken to think clearly. Walking and talking at the same time was impossible for him; when she stopped before the stairs, he welcomed that break though he knew why she stopped.

“Just tired,” he breathed before she could say anything. “The longer your speech… the more time I will have… for restin’.” Damn, there was no way to hide that he had to take pauses to inhale; that completely ruined his attempt to divert her attention. Her face lost _all_ its color.

His tablet pinged again. And again.

“Hardison… take care of this,” he whispered. “You have a better overall view of everything.”

“Yeah, because I’m just chilling here, having nothing else to do, right?” Hardison’s voice was followed by frantic typing.

He thought for a moment about how to tell him he couldn’t see letters clearly, without alarming all of them. Nothing came to mind. He blinked a few times, trying to concentrate, again without any effort. Florence’s eyes, keen and intensive, never left his face.

His silence was enough, though, to remind Hardison of all the possible reasons why he couldn’t continue with the Supernatural shit anymore. “Okay, you lazy, I’ll do it. I know you need all your attention to glance at actresses.”

Hardison was always much faster than this, and he knew he too was in very bad shape. His retreat from the third floor of the Paramount building would be interesting. Damn, _everybody_ ’s retreat from this would be interesting. He couldn’t cover them all. He had to be in five places at the same time to make sure everyone got out – and he felt his breathing going dangerously into overdrive, as panic struck without warning.

He smiled at Florence, hid all his fear and worry, and shooed her in front of him. It was better for her not to see how unsteady he was. “Continue, Mrs. McCoy,” he whispered. “One more stairs and we’re near the backstage entrance.”

“And you’ll arrive just in time to see and hear Jules Brewer on stage,” Nate said. “He’s about to receive some sort of recognition for charity. And he will officially announce the cancellation of the Magnificent Seven.”

“And you took my gun,” she grumbled. Eliot wasn’t sure if she was joking or not. Probably was.

“Nate,” Hardison jumped in, “should we wait with, with… you know what… until he finishes that, or we should jump in before, or… not sure what the best time is for, for…”

“All is set?”

“Locked and loaded.”

“Start it, but slowly, _after_ he cancels the show.”

Florence turned on the stairs, with questions in her eyes, but he just shook his head. He couldn’t tell her. Not yet. Hardison’s silence after Nate’s words reflected his own confused thoughts; doing anything _after_ the cancellation seemed pointless. But Nate knew what he was doing… they didn’t know everything about the Siren’s Song, just the basic guidelines.

“Go,” he waved to her to continue; he had to grab the railings to keep up with her, not to stumble on the stairs, and long before she reached the last one, he saw her only as a blurry greenish shape. Black dots danced in front of his eyes when they entered the corridors with people, but Nate was waiting for them.

He was only partially aware of the meaning of his words, while he talked with people around Florence, with her, even with him at one point, taking them all near the big entrance.

He could see the stage through that opening; the stage with huge screens, blinding, pulsing lights and the roar of the audience.

The blurry shape on the stage must’ve been Brewer.

He retreated two steps backward, until he felt the wall behind his back, and started to work on clearing the darkness from his eyes.

He had less than five minutes to get himself into functioning mode again.

.

.

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***

.

“You!” one of three agents approaching Parker with quick steps stopped her. “What are you doing with that chair? Let me see some ID.”

“I wish I knew,” she said, raising her badge so they could see it. “He said: get rid of it, it’s in the way. And so I’m walking around carrying a stupid chair, because every time I find a place to put it, agents jump me and shoo me away with questions. Do you want it? It’s a very nice chair.”

They glanced at the chair, and one of them opened a door, revealing a dark room. “This is a small conference hall – lots of chairs in it. Put it there and return to your duties.”

“Yes, sir!” she saluted cheerfully, hid the chair in a row with almost similar ones, and bounced away.

“Good job, Parker,” Nate purred in her ear. “What are you wearing right now?”

She stopped mid jump and glanced down at her sparkly dress. “A dark-blue technician outfit,” she sang. “Why?”

“Because I need you to get back into the hostess dress. Florence will soon go onstage, and we don’t know what could happen. Maybe we’ll need someone to get her off the stage very fast, and you can do it as a hostess – they are escorting guests on and off the stage.”

“Okay, going there,” she grinned evilly, made a pirouette that sent her dress whirling around her, and headed for the stage.

.

.

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***

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Sophie’s purse did have hidden storage space, Florence decided when the grifter pulled makeup and even powder from it. She waited for them in the corridor – more likely a tunnel – that led to the stage. The coordinator who gave her her schedule in the first place was almost frantic when she finally arrived, and he attacked her with a microphone, all the instructions, seconds and minutes of her reply, the speech and announcing the next winner. Sophie was taking care of her make up while he waved his arms around them. Nate was standing right next to them, as if part of her team, crew, whatever.

She sighed in relief when the guy finally left her to spread panic on the next nominee.

“Any luck with Don Lazzara?” Nate asked Sophie when they couldn’t be heard anymore.

Before Sophie could open her mouth, Florence checked where Eliot was – two meters behind them, by the wall, body guard stance with crossed arms. The tunnel was dark so no light would disturb the stage, yet it had enough light for him to monitor all hurried people circulating around them, going to and fro. She could see that all his weight was on the wall; if he wanted to move, he would have to push himself from it. He couldn’t even stand on his own and Nate pretended he didn’t see it.

“Wait,” she said quickly. “Nate, listen… I go and get that award, and then we immediately clear out. Forget about all the plans, something’s very wrong with him, he is going down. He has to go to Mass Gen as in now.”

“We’ll get him there, Florence – but after we finish this. And for god’s sake, please try to remember that we all have earbuds. He's listening to us.”

“No, he is ignoring you,” Eliot sounded apathetic. She cursed silently, and Sophie tsk tsk-ed at her when she blushed and messed up the tone of the powder.

“I’m not joking!” she turned her eyes to Nate, forcing him to understand. “Let me stay here, I can be visible and make Don Lazzara think we are all here, but you must take him away-

“Florence, stop,” Eliot growled. “Yeah, I feel like shit. I’ll rest a little after we finish with the stage part of this, before the next move in the plan. Promise. Just stop now, okay?”

She ignored him completely, staring at Nate. He nodded, whatever that might mean. Probably just an acknowledgment of her words, but it was something, at least.

“So, Don Lazzara, Sophie?” Nate turned to Sophie.

“No use that he has no protective shield now; I was sitting near him at the table, and I couldn’t catch any word he said. We can forget recording anything incriminating during the ceremony. And after if ends…”

“It’s too late, and too dangerous,” Eliot said instead of Nate. “It’s the perfect time for his strike – we will be too occupied with staying alive then.”

“I made progress,” Hardison said. “But it’s not enough. I need more data. I checked those five cameras the watery French guy uses to calculate the water projections – they have no sound, so no use of them. My bug that Parker planted above Don Lazzara’s table was ruined in the last water curtain that ran down, circuits are burned. Nate, you will need to provoke him somehow.”

“No!” Sophie and Eliot spat at the same time, and Florence flinched. Her nerves were a pulsing wreck. She didn’t know much about their plan, but she knew enough to know that they couldn’t collect anything useful at the cocktail party, because of the jammer. Everything that Don Lazzara said was for their ears only, before he turned his probe on. They had nothing recorded. And in this second part, at the ceremony, they had double nothing.

Nate would need a miracle to make him say anything. She stared blindly into nothing while Sophie worked on her face. The grifter’s face, so close, was pale.

“Hardison, anything new with facial recognition?” Eliot was suddenly two steps closer, though he still seemed separated from their group. “That Lennon guy is here again.” Florence threw one hidden glance under Sophie’s busy hands – the man in the dark grey suit and Lennon glasses really stood at the end of the tunnel, close to the stage. Maybe he was just Don Lazzara’s protection?

“Nothing, but it only went through a third of the criminal datab- Okay, forget it for now – listen to this,” Hardison shut up and the stage sounds grew louder. There wasn’t any applause, just whistling and loud boo noises following Brewer off the stage.

Florence sighed, realizing that she had just missed the official death of her show.

And Nate, in the midst of all the chaos and quick talking, stood silent and smiling, watching them all in turns.

“Florence, if you don’t stop your teeth from chattering, I won’t be able to fix your lipstick- here you go, great. Just don’t move now,” Sophie finished with the last move of the brush. “Brewer’s coming to you. Okay, don’t cry anymore and you’ll be fine. Your bruise is hidden. Smile and-”

“Florence,” Nate took two steps back, closer to Eliot. “Brewer knows Inspector Webster, so I’ll be behind him. If he wants to talk to you about something, follow my lead, okay? Sophie, back off, give her space.”

And Brewer really came to her.

“Congratulations on your award, Mrs. McCoy.” He said it normally, even held out his hand. She unclenched her teeth and hissed his hand away.

“You knew Magnificent Seven won Best Cable Drama, and you still canceled it?” She spat out. “What kind of idiot are you- never mind… we’ll go into history as the first canceled show to win that award.”

“I had to play out the decision of my Board of Directors. I did it, so it’s done. But now, Mrs. McCoy… Florence… we are free to talk about new projects and new starts. About all the ways that are available to get Magnificent Seven back on air. I am more than willing to use this uproar you created, drawing in the new viewers.”

She stared at him, not believing. Hope, for a second, flickered in her heart.

“Don’t say a word, Florence,” Nate’s voice in her ear said calmly. “Let him talk. Stall.”

Stall for what, she thought. If Brewer was willing to give something, she should try to negotiate it right away, while her award was still important. If she missed this opportunity…

“What do you have in mind?” she asked carefully. She couldn’t believe that everything they'd done had had some kind of impact – Brewer wouldn’t think twice if he wasn’t aware…

“Maybe I can negotiate a TV movie based on your series. Or try something small, for example, a mini-series of five episodes. Or a spin off. If numbers go up, and that’s all that matters, a complete revival is also an option.”

“Florence, do _not_ accept any of that. Stall him,” Nate said again.

She smiled at Brewer, trying to look as if she was considering his words, deeply regretting she couldn’t just turn to Nate and explain to him that it wasn’t just her in question here. She had a big crew to feed, actors, writers, all the people that would lose their jobs if M7 was no more – for all of them, five episodes or a movie meant the world. And their numbers would go up, after all this, she knew it.

“Nate, do you want me to do it now?” Hardison sounded like he was holding his finger over the red button of nuclear missile, tense and worried.

“No, Hardison, _wait_. All of you, wait, dammit! Florence, ask Brewer something. We need more time.”

Time for _what_? “Mr. Brewer, that is surely a great improvement from the last time we talked about M7.” She used one of Sophie’s light smiles, and failed miserably, it felt like a twitch from constipation. “If you’re willing to give me that, why not the entire sixth season? Fans would be delighted and they would return and stop boycotting your other shows. You _can’t_ lose that way.”

“Fans,” Brewer repeated with a crooked smile. “They are just customers, they aren’t important. We will always have enough of them, more new ones coming with every reality show.”

“But you lost many-”

“There is a common practice for how to bring back the fans that are pissed off by a cancellation – choose the most loved actor with the biggest fan base and give him a contract, luring them back. Don’t look at me like that, we both know how it works. They are an easily manipulated mass, and they have the memory and attention span of a beaten dog. We boot them in the ribs, but they come to us wagging their tails, slobbering happily if we give them a treat. They will thank us both, with the tears in their eyes, if we give them Buck again. Or Chris. Use it. Use them. We all do. We move a finger – the herd follows.”

“Florence, don’t-”

She didn’t wait for the rest of Nate’s hurried whisper. “My fans…” she said with her throat clenched, “are not a _herd_. My fans are people who give – and we give back. They gave everything to us, they won us this award – and I want to give them the show they want to watch, not some false substitute just so you can earn more money off them!! And I’m glad you think of them that way, because you will fail, you will lose them all. They know when they're treated like crap, you piece of shit. You can take your precious spin off and spin it deep into your-”

“Trouble,” Eliot’s voice stopped her sentence; he took one step towards her, but she saw Nate’s hand that quickly grabbed his arm, stopping him. She looked at them both now – Nate had a strange predatory smile on his face. Eliot was only tensed, staring at the Lennon guy slowly approaching them.

Brewer, whose mouth gaped open, finally managed to close it.

“And now,” Nate’s whisper stopped them all. “Florence, it’s up to you to get your sixth season, or not.”

What? She blinked. What the hell did-

The Lennon guy stopped two steps away from her and Brewer.

“Good day,” he said with a polite, nice voice. He smiled at Brewer, then at her. “A contract for full five seasons, twenty-two episodes each,” he said simply. “For the next first season, the sixth in a row, the same conditions as you had with C4, after that, a raise is negotiable. All the actors’ contracts renewed for another five years – same conditions for the first year, the rest also negotiable. You keep all the rights to the show, as an executive producer and creator. I have the papers ready.”

The silence in all that noise around them was deafening.

“Excuse me,” he said with a little bow. “I forgot to introduce myself. I’m Leslie Moonveil, Board of Directors CEO… of CBS.”

No wonder Hardison couldn’t find him in any criminal database, was her first numb-brained thought.

“I want a fun, intelligent show that will fill the slot before NCIS,” he continued. “And I surely want those three million new viewers that will follow M7 to CBS, grateful for the chance we’re giving. I kept my eye on your doings, Mrs. McCoy, and I’m impressed with the machinery you put into motion – you created a miracle, and I want you, and your PR team, to continue that way.”

Her stricken eyes flickered to Nate; he slowly raised his hand, pulling something from his pocket. He held Orion’s ribbon between two fingers, and he just slowly waved it, like he waved it in front of Orion’s nose. His eyes were laughing.

She gulped. Of course it wasn’t for Brewer, he _said_ he did nothing to him. A Peacock Mating Dance, indeed… he created a show, pushed her into the central spot and backed off, to see who would be attracted by it, who would bite the bait. Who would be clever enough to recognize the opportunity for more money.

“You knew The Magnificent Seven won the PVA?” she asked.

“CBS is _doing_ the PVA, Mrs. McCoy,” he said simply, waving his head to the stage and the audience. “I asked. They delivered the results. Do you want to know how far you left The Walking Dead behind you?”

“No… not really. You will get much more than three million viewers,” she said. “Everybody will watch M7 now.”

“I know,” he said. And smiled at Brewer.

“How can you kno-,” Brewer started, then swallowed.

“Because I’m the CEO of CBS,” he said lightly. And very politely. “And you’re… Jules Brewer,” he finished.

Brewer turned on his heel and went away.

“If you want, you can announce the good news to your fans tonight – but tomorrow we shall meet again and start working on details. My team is ready for your questions.” He lowered his head and kissed her hand, then went in the opposite direction.

“Nate, _when_?!” Hardison growled.

“It wasn’t needed now, for this,” Nate said. “So the best time will be when she goes onstage. You agree, Eliot? After all, you did it.”

She looked at Eliot, at the smile on his face. He nodded to Nate. “Yeah, it will be perfect.”

“Nate, how could you know-” she whispered.

“I couldn’t. I told you that we could do almost nothing to Brewer – there was just this, a little chance, that our doings would attract the attention of the right people… so I put all the emphasis on that. It might not work – you might end up ruined as a writer and I knew what risk I took – but I also knew you would recover from it.”

“I think I’ll cry again.”

“No, you won’t,” Sophie poked her in her ribs, to straighten up. “Put that smile on, keep your head high, and start walk-”

“One minute, Mrs. McCoy, get ready,” a guy yelled, running past her.

“Wait…” It was Eliot that spoke and she abruptly stopped. His eyes were uncertain when he came one step closer. “I have to tell you something before you go… that Supernatural thing…”

“I know you did all that you could,” she said gently. “And if that didn’t work, just leave it. We shall try something tomorrow. Or the day after. Or it will stop all by itself, fandom wars often just die out.”

“Not… exactly… that,” his eyes flickered to Nate for a second. Hardison’s snort followed his words.

“Okay, even if you made it worse, we can fix it.”

“Not exactly that, either.” In the silence after his words, Penny announced the nominations for Best Cable Drama, she was just seconds from leaving for the stage; the hostess that came to escort her already stood by her side. But she stared into his upset eyes. She’d never seen his eyes _upset_. Insecure.

“You see, I told them what I had done to turn them against each other…” he said. “I told them _everything_.”

“Oh. That was… risky.” She turned to the stage – Penny had stopped the announcement and was laughing in surprise, watching something behind her.

“And more importantly, I’ve told them _why_ I did all that,” Eliot now put his both hands on her shoulders, forcing her to look at him. “For whom, for which fandom, for which cause,” he went on, as a strange roar spread over the audience. “I told them everything that you and Hardison told me about your love for fandoms, for the _one_ love that all of you share. About fighting for good.”

“We have to go, Mrs. McCoy,” the hostess said in panic, but she could barely hear her over the noise; Penny was babbling something, Eliot stared into her eyes, the audience was applauding, and she stood numb-brained, trying to understand what he was trying to say.

A sudden panic shook her; she didn’t understand any of this, she couldn’t go out there in front of all those people, and she clutched at his jacket – she didn’t have a damn speech – but he gently released her fingers and turned her like a doll to face the stage.

And the huge screens behind it, used to show movie clips, now showed Washington Street in front of the Opera House, and the dark mass of silent people that stood there.

“They understood,” Eliot whispered in her ear. “They stopped fighting… I called them to come… And they called the others.”

He pushed her slightly then, and she took one step forward, turning to him. Nate was by his side, his hands on him, steadying him as he swayed, but Eliot paid no attention to that. He waved his head to the screens. She followed his eyes.

“Go,” he breathed, so quiet she barely heard him in her earbud; Nate was now keeping him upright, pulling him back to the wall.

The hysteric hostess pushed her forward and she stepped into the reflector lights, leaving the tunnel – and her glaze glued to the screens and the people on them.

There was the M7 group's pitchfork admin, and her one hundred fans wearing crimson shirts. But the group standing next to her wore long brown coats… another group was in the full plate armor of the High Elven Kings. Row after row of people, hundreds, thousands of them, Whovians, Trekkers, Supernatural, Castle fans with Cumberbitches, Orcs with Jedis, vampires with zombies with Avengers… all of them standing still, waiting in silence.

 _He called them. For her. They came_.

Her legs almost gave way. The hostess literally pulled her forward, but she couldn’t see anything through the tears pouring down her face.

“And now, give me something special, or I _will_ shoot you!” she heard Hardison’s whisper… and as she walked, passing near the VIP tables, green and golden columns of sparkling water made a victory arch, following her steps to the stage.

Penny waited for her up there, with an unfamiliar man with a crystal People's Voice award in his hands, but a deafening silence fell on the audience; Penny gazed, not following the script, staring between her and the silent shadows on all the screens. A sign language interpreter stood behind them, with his hands immobile, like all of them. This _wasn’t_ in the program.

“You, you… your fans are here to support you,” Penny managed to say finally. “Went through all the police blocks. This, this… these are not just M7 fans- but they came for you. For the Magnificent Seven.”

Florence tried to say something; silence was terrifying. A dead quiet fell on the hall.

And then a man in full body armor moved on the screen, bringing something to his mouth.

A horn.

A clear, high note echoed through the audience, through all of Washington Street, and deep through her heart… a sound went up, and up, calling to arms, _demanding_. The others followed, adding their horns, light sabers, fazors, sonic screwdrivers, rising them high in the air.

“ _And in that very moment_ ,” she could hear Hardison’s whisper in her ear, “ _away behind in some courtyard of the city, a cock crowed. Shrill and clear he crowed, reckingnothing of war nor of wizardry, welcoming only the morning that in the sky far above the shadows of death was coming with the dawn_ ,” His voice broke for a moment, but he went on. “ _And as if in answer there came from far away another note. Horns, horns, horns. In Mindolluin's dark sides they dimly echoed. Great horns of the north wildly blowing. Rohan had come at last_.”

The crystal award, when she held it, shone with green light… and sang in her hands, vibrating along with the horns, and the explosion of applause, pulsing with the energy of hundreds of fandoms, united for one night. Victorious.

.

 

***

 

%MCEPASTEBIN%


	64. Chapter 64

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 62B is counted as No.63, so I continue with Chapter 64.  
> It would be wise to read at least the end of the previous chapter, to remember what's going on.

 

 

Chapter 64

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***

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“Good job, Commander.”

Eliot glanced sideways to Nate, searching for irony on his face, but there was none. Not that he could see it even if it was there; the backstage tunnel was darker, and they pulled back to one wall to make room for people going to and fro.

Correction; he moved back because he couldn’t stand without support, and Nate followed him, annoyingly close, to catch him if he collapsed. But they both pretended it was because of the people. Sophie was too close; the girls knew nothing about Hardison’s bullets, nor his coughing blood, and they planned to keep them in the dark as long as they could. Unfortunately, that meant that he would, at some point, _if needed_ , have to accept some help. He was simply thrilled about it, but if that meant he would be able to do his job, well, he was willing to try it.

They could still see the stage and the better part of the audience, including the VIP tables.

“I just used them,” he said. “Just repeated Hardison’s and Florence’s words. I don’t feel what they feel. Don’t understand it.”

“You don’t have to. I didn’t expect you to become a geek when I told you I needed a Commander for a legion-”

“But I think he did,” Hardison cut off his words. “Just a little, admit it. _Age of the Geek_ – c’mon, say it. I know you can feel it now. Feel the Force, Eliot.”

“Just shut up,” he growled, worriedly noticing Hardison’s slight slurring. “You’ll never hear me say _that_.”

“Never say never,” Hardison continued. “Nate, I have minutes before I start uploadin’ everything I have. A little more data would be useful, though, the more, the better.”

“And right on time,” Nate said quietly, nodding at the tables. “Can you see Don Lazzara, Hardison?”

“Yeah, I have complete control of everything at the ceremony.”

Now Eliot could see it too. Florence was still onstage, while Penny, recovering from the unexpected shock, managed to return to the script, slowly introducing the M7 and the award they won. Don Lazzara was looking at Florence. He caught the small nod of respect he gave her when their eyes met, but one second later, he raised his hand and glaringly took a look at his watch.

“He is one classy bastard,” Nate said. “He just told her he waited with everything until she got her award – gentleman to the bone – but now the game starts. Our time bomb just started ticking, the hunt is on.”

“And she still has her speech, and more babbling about the next nominee from the host, including the clips from every show in that category, and then she has to wait to give them the award, and stay onstage until the winner finishes his speech. Minutes and minutes, completely exposed,” Hardison said.

Eliot moved a few steps closer to the entrance, to see more of the audience. No use for that, though – snipers could be anywhere, hidden deep in the darkness of the giant hall. He knew twenty perfect spots, and he couldn’t check them all. Don Lazzara said that killing the award winner was too risky for him here, but it would be very, very reckless to rely on that. Paranoia was a healthy habit in situations like this.

“Well, Penny is good at improvising,” Nate said. “Parker, get ready. Go to the stage as a hostess and take Florence away when she finishes her speech. It will look like a misunderstanding in procedure, and Penny will cover it up.”

“On it,” Parker chirped from somewhere.

“Eliot, get back!” Nate’s voice was all of a sudden sharp, and he took one step aside, to the darker spot.

“What’s up?” he said not turning around, searching the audience. The answer walked past his shoulder, in a staggering hurry. Nobody stopped Goon B in his Dvorak Security jacket – he went to Don Lazzara’s table, leaning to him.

Well, fuck. The change on Don Lazzara’s face was terrifying to watch. Nothing moved, he didn’t change his expression a bit, his face raised to his goon with a slight interest… but that expression seemed to be set in stone now, rigid and carved deep into his bones.

“I think,” Nate said thoughtfully, “that he just found out that his nephew is dead.”

All of them, not just Eliot, could read the words forming slowly on his lips: _Kill. Them. All_.

Goon B walked several meters away and pulled his phone out.

“Eliot, can you… no, too late,” Nate sighed. “His men have just been warned that the action is starting. But he moved away. Neither he, nor Don Lazzara, is aware yet that the CMS-19 is destroyed. They still think that everything around them is blocked. Hardison, is there any way for Don Lazzara to know that?”

“Only if someone near him answers his phone, and they won’t while the ceremony lasts. Even if he checks his probe, it will show nothing.”

“Good. As soon as Florence is off the stage, we’ll provoke him a little.”

“You know what I think about it,” Sophie said.

“Not the way you think. I will use H- Shhhh, I think the speech is starting.”

“Maybe we should’ve let Parker take her away before this,” Eliot lowered his voice, as he watched Florence with the crystal award in her hands. He was nervous, he realized, not completely sure how he could be nervous on top of all the troubles raging through his mind.

“It’s a good thing I didn't have my speech prepared,” she said, “because now I would have to improvise. So I’ll just skip all the thank you’s – you know who you are, I don’t have to mention you all by name. But these people,” she turned to the screens, “deserve an honorable mention. They are the only important thing in this line of work. Someone who creates only for money and profit, and not for love, will never know how it feels, when the love is returned. Never understand that loyalty can be returned only with loyalty – to the end. What’s not made for fans, has no value, because they are the only thing that can judge it. This award goes to the fans – not mine, not The Magnificent Seven fans – but to all the people who love what we all do, and support us. You are the force that makes this show go on – and don’t let anyone tell you different.”

The hall exploded in applause, and the people on the street once more blew their horns in salute – but in the middle of that noise, a spark came down from the ceiling, whirling in a pirouette like an ice-skating star, down and down.

“Heck, Parker, when I said to take her off the stage, I didn’t mean _that_ -” Nate’s exasperated vent was barely audible in the noise.

The whirling spark stopped behind Florence, grabbed her around her waist – the beautiful hostess smiled to the audience before setting her harness to pull them up. “Smile and wave, smile and wave,” they could hear Parker in their ears. She did add a little effect to their disappearance, because they went up in a spiral, the silvery blue and green dress dancing around them, until they disappeared high above the glass panels of the stage, in the darkness.

“An action retreat for an action show,” Penny quickly took over, though her eyes were glazed, in confusion or in anger, Eliot couldn’t tell. The poor woman was probably fed up with all the unexpected things by now.

“Hardison, keep an eye on Don Lazzara and the ceremony, we’ll retreat from backstage,” Nate said. “Parker, stay with Florence up above the stage, no mobster will climb to you. Change her into something – you’ll join us when we find some place to gather, and when we see what the next move in Don Lazzara’s plan is.”

“My things are up here,” Parker said. “Talk to you later.”

“Nate, give me a minute, I’ll find something,” Sophie said going down the tunnel. “Stay here until I call you.”

Eliot didn’t say a word, he just turned around and went after her, nodding to Nate to stay where he was. Only this tunnel was dark, and everything behind it was well lit, full of people and reporters, and all the unseen people that really rolled this show. And full of Security. Dvorak people were everywhere.

He followed her unnoticed, listening to Nate’s instructions to Hardison, until he realized that Nate’s voice was also one step behind him, not just in the earbud. He turned around with indignation – if they didn’t stay where he put them, how on earth was he supposed to control all their positions?

“There was a minor problem with my staying safe in the tunnel,” Nate said, reading his glare. “If you look at Sophie again, you’ll see what.”

He followed his pointing hand. It wasn't Dvorak Security goons that approached her – two Secret Service agents stopped her, very politely, took her aside behind two big posters, and asked to scan her VIP badge.

“Okay, stay here _now_ ,” he growled, going to them, adjusting his steps to the speed of the other people – busy, determined, but not threatening.

“You two are in the imminent danger. He saw and read her badge, and now, via Dvorak Security who alarmed the others, all the agents are searching for suspicious Alison Hastings,” Nate continued, quieter. Sophie was stalling the agents, not a hint of worry in her posture, giggling in embarrassment while trying to take the badge off. Terrorists weren’t relaxed while fighting with stubborn safety pins, and the agents’ posture went from rigid to only impatient.

“You are the other one, Eliot. He studied you, and your security badge, you’re blown too. They all have both your descriptions and names. Hardison is safe for now, until he starts drawing Don Lazzara out. Parker would be hard to recognize, seventy-five percent of the hostesses are blond and beautiful. It seems I’m the only one Don Lazzara doesn’t know, didn’t see – and my description is too common.”

Eliot reached the agents just as Nate finished. “Let me do that.” He took the scanner from one hand, while the surprised man just opened his mouth to say something, and smashed the thing into the head of the other. He head-butted the first one, close range, almost at the same moment, catching him when he staggered back, directing his fall into a chair that stood handy. Just one second, both men were down, without any noise. Because of the posters, only two heads turned in their direction.

Sophie was already two steps away, checking her phone, as if she didn’t notice any of that.

“You two,” he waved at the two witnesses. “Go slowly, without arousing any suspicion, and tell to the first agents you see to go to the Paramount Building immediately. Don’t say a word to anyone else. Go, and don’t come back here, for your safety.”

The direct order stopped their beginning shouts – they closed their mouths and hurried away. That might give them a minute, before they started to think and alarm the first agents they saw.

“Nate,” he called then; there was no chance he could pull the fallen one into another chair.

Nate was there in a second, so he could take a step back and _breathe_ , just shielding his doings from more curious eyes.

Nate crossed the agents’ arms and went through their pockets, putting their glasses on. That wouldn’t pass two glances, but people were busy, and agents were everywhere. This might hold for a few minutes. Nate gave him a real badge; the name was J.D. Bradshaw. He put Eliot’s old badge on one agent.

“I went through Hardison’s blueprints,” Sophie said, another ten steps away from them. Her hand flashed through her hair, moving down near a woman that passed by her; Alison Hastings continued through the corridor while Sophie put her new VIP pass on her dress. “I have a perfect spot to lay low for a few minutes. It will give Hardison enough time to work on the final details.”

“Okay, lead the way,” Nate said, following her.

Eliot waited until they put some distance between them, then went slowly after them. Laying low sounded too good to be true. Simple sitting down was now the only thing that could keep him functioning.

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***

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Thank god she had her sneakers, Florence thought while balancing on one leg, on a thin metal pole that went over the abyss, while taking off her dress. All in pitch darkness. Parker waited with dark blue coveralls, the same as the pair she'd already changed into.

“This is too big for me,” she said lifting one hand – the other was clutching the rope – showing Parker the sleeve that went fifteen centimeters past her fingers.

Parker opened her backpack, pulling out a big roll of duct tape. Her dress was in it already, wrapped around the award to protect it from harm.

“You have duct tape in there,” she stated.

“Never leave the house without it.” Parker rolled her sleeves to the correct length and fastened them with the tape, repeating the process with her trousers. “Or a tazer.”

“Or the diamond,” she said, grinning. “I duct-taped the gun on my leg.”

“Only one?”

“Only one I had.”

Parker put the roll back in the backpack and took something else out. The scent of almonds told her she had a hand full of marzipan balls even before Parker offered them to her. She waved them off, for now, watching Parker who chewed completely relaxed.

“Do you, by any chance, have something _useful_ in that bag?” Florence asked carefully.

“Maybe,” came the same careful answer.

“Good.” They exchanged grins.

“What now?” she turned around, slowly, glancing over the barely visible net of cables, beams, platforms. It was her first look at the real backstage… or it was up-stage? She could imagine the real opera coulisses going up here, the entire scenery on cables and ropes. In old movies they used bags of sand as counterweights. They were on the top of it, all the lights were below them.

“Going one level down, to the platforms where you’ll be able to stand.”

Oh. That was unusually thoughtful of Parker. “Thank you.”

“Never break a client.”

“Uhm, it’s… a very, very… reasonable-”

She wanted to say something more, but she was too busy stopping a scream, when Parker, without any warning, grabbed her and threw them both down, into the darkness.

She was _positive_ they would climb down by ladder.

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***

.

Sophie led them just one turn in the hall away; Eliot already lost count of the doors they were passing, and he was as close to whining as he would ever be. He definitely wasn’t in shape for more walking.

“There is one thing that's dreaded in theater, movie and TV business, at events like this one,” Sophie talked while they walked, “No star, no matter how big or small, will ever allow somebody to see them in the process of putting makeup. These smaller rooms are for makeup artists, and you can be sure than no one would ever dare enter without being called in. Wait here.” She entered without knocking, leaving them to stand in front of the door.

Just five seconds after that, two girls came out with stricken eyes, followed by an older gentleman who had half of his hair done.

“And don’t forget to mention two foxes, dear,” Sophie waved after them. She glanced up and down the hall, giving them the sign to enter.

“I need just five more seconds, I saw my new dress. Get in here and wait for me.”

When the grifter was in busy mode, there was no arguing, they both entered the room. There was nothing in it, except a huge mirror with numerous colored… things…. in front of it, and three chairs. Eliot sat in the first chair – it felt better than a transfusion. He even managed to relax his back for a few seconds.

Nate was watching him.

“Still… manageable,” he whispered. “This will help. But go and check the corridor, just in case, I don’t know what she is-”

No need for that. Sophie returned quickly as she promised, with a satisfied beam on her face. Followed by a fully armored riot cop.

“Here we are, just get in here,” she shooed the cop in the room, and the small space suddenly was full. She looked at him then, raising her eyebrows at the cop.

“You gotta be kidding me,” he growled, still sitting.

“What is the emergency, Madam?” a deep voice came under the helmet. Where the hell was he supposed to hit him? In the helmet? In the heavy ballistic vest? In the armored stomach, or strengthened joints on his suit?

“Sophie, for god’s sake, this is worse than slapping a Robocop. Are you completely insane?” He slowly got up.

“Wait, our friend here will get a wrong impression,” she smiled at the cop. “We have important information about the terrorists, but we have to be sure you are really a cop, Mr…”–she looked at his ID badge–“… Mr. Nick Ashton. Would you be so kind as to remove your helmet so we can see if your face is the same as your picture? I hope you understand our worries… we can’t risk that info going into the wrong hands.”

The guy lifted his visor a little. If he tried to smash him in the face, he would break every fucking bone in his hand, that opening was simply too small. The guy was kinda… scary.

“You aren’t the cop,” Sophie’s eyes widened in horror. “Whose ID do you have?!”

“What?” the cop said. “Look, lady-”

And that was it. Nate smashed a chair sideways into his helmet; visors were useful, but they were lousy for peripheral vision. And helmets might lessen the impact when hit, but they also made the skull bounce inside. The guy went down like a tree.

Eliot sat back. “Next time, please do warn us about your plans,” he ground out. “Now go get that dress, we’re losing time.”

“Here it is,” she pointed at the fallen cop. “A little too big for me, but walking around as an armored and completely covered riot cop is the safest thing now. Do you want me to get another for you?”

He eyed the outfit; she was right, for her, it was perfect… but there was no way he could wear all that now. He was already too slow and weak, and the last thing he needed was more weight on his chest and shoulders. “Nope. Not my color.”

“As you wish. Now, both of you turn around, I have to change.”

He leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes. He knew it was a mistake the moment he felt all sounds becoming distant, but there was no going back; the darkness provided rest and silence, and dulled the pain. Only one minute, was his last thought.

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***

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The hand on his face was warm and gentle, it brought no danger, so he didn’t strike. Opening his eyes was damn tiresome, and it went in stages.

A riot cop was kneeling in front of his chair, only without gloves. Her hand was still on his cheek. He thought for a second, and decided not to push it away. Her need for cooing over him and them was like gathering water behind a dam; it was wise to let some water out from time to time, controlled, to ease the pressure, to avoid a giant spill when the dam exploded.

“And what if I forgot you changed into this?” he asked, trying to articulate every word normally, as if he had just closed his eyes to think, and not passed out.

“Then I would know you’re much worse than this,” she said, lifting her visor up. The grifter’s eyes were calm and attentive. _Shit, not again_.

“This isn’t a bathroom, Sophie,” he pointed out. “Not your natural attack place. Where’s Nate?” he had to ask that, knowing he just told her he was really out.

“He’ll be back in a minute. And since you mentioned bathrooms… I spared you a talk, before we started this PVA… there was no time for it. But you owe me one, you remember that?”

“Yeah, I do,” he smiled. Her problem, the thing that troubled her, something she needed him to explain to her. He regretted that he didn’t press her before, and make her talk – the way things were going, the chances of that talk happening were very lousy.

When she frowned, he remembered she could read his smile, all the damn meanings and thoughts behind it.

“You’re not half as good at _this_ as you think you are,” her voice had a bitter note in it now. He was grateful for her careful choice of words; the earbuds were a curse sometimes, not a help.

“I don’t have to be,” he whispered, not trying to pretend anymore. “As long as we take step after step, with rests like this one, I’m able to follow. Nothing different than other days… and it went well, if I recall correctly.”

She opened her mouth to say something, and stopped. He knew why – everything she wanted to say would tell the others what was going on. So she just smiled, one small, sad smile, putting her hand on his face again, instead of all the words she wanted to say.

In silence. This time, he did something he had never done before; he covered her hand with his, accepting that touch. No words, just a few seconds of understanding. And love.

She lowered her visor when her eyes blurred with tears, and got up, turning her back on him, leaving him to sit.

He sat, looking right in front of him. She stood, looking at the mirror. They said nothing more.

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.

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***

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“I have to tell you the truth,” Hardison said to the French guy after he disconnected his laptop from his console. He had all his programs, and he already enjoyed everything he would try at Nate’s apartment while they all recovered from this shit, in peace. Even Eliot wouldn’t growl if he made an artistic watering system for George, water jumping into his vase with only a press of a button, from five different places in the room. _In colors_.

The French guy waited, and he realized he was drifting away. He rubbed his neck to get together, and remembered where he was.

“See this guy?” he pointed at Don Lazzara on the screen. “He’s my boss. He is the one who made this terrorism threat, and he made me come here, to control all this, to help him kill some people. But I won’t do that. I can’t kill, I’m not a killer. But I also can’t go to the cops, they would arrest me or kill me. Only thing I can do is stop him from killing. Will you help me?”

“You said you will kill _me_.”

“I won’t. I can – I can kill you now, and do all of it by myself. But I will not. When I finish, I will tie you up and leave you here alive. I want you to tell cops everything, to help them get him. You are my only witness, only you can tell them I’m innocent. Will you help me?”

“I guess I have no choice,” the guy shrugged. “What do you need?”

“A miracle, my friend, a miracle… but let’s start small, shall we?”

.

.

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***

.

“All Security, Secret Service and the FBI are in uproar, they are swarming the place,” Nate reported when he got back, pretty breathless himself. “They are now searching for _names and faces_ , not just unknown suspects. They are scanning everybody, I saw them stopping Sandra Bullock, and she just got off the stage. I can’t recognize the FBI agents, they could be anybody, they are mingled with workers and guests. But they are only the second trouble; they would simply arrest us. Dvorak Security would shoot on sight.”

Eliot looked over the small room. No windows, only one door.

“And they don’t know, and don’t care, about the unwritten rules of not disturbing the makeup process,” Eliot said. “They’ll check every room. We have to get out of here.”

“Not yet.” Nate dragged the unconscious cop into the corner, behind the door, putting him into sitting position so the door would hide him when opened. “I can still go out. They don’t have my name and as long as I stay near dark-haired possible Alison Hastings, they would check them first. You still have four cameras with you?”

“Two. One is in the Paramount Building, covering the stairs, one in the laundry room corridor.” Eliot gave him the small cameras. “Sophie can stay here and be safe – no, she would be much safer if she just patrolled the corridor – but you can’t go alone. Don Lazzara maybe doesn’t know your face, but the mine mobsters saw you when we dealt with Knudsen.”

“Those that were arrested there are still in custody. Only Knudsen could’ve been a problem.”

He sighed. “Nate,” he said slowly. “Not without me near.”

Nate thought, than nodded. “Hardison?” he asked.

Silence. Eliot only then became aware that he hadn't heard his typing for some time. How long, he couldn’t tell.

“Yeah, here,” Hardison said before he could start worrying. His words were slow. _Too slow_. “The first part is completed, though the upload will take some time. Are you sure it ain’t enough?”

“We can’t risk him slipping out, just because he found some hole,” Nate said. “It’s now or never – we will never have a better chance for finishing him for good. The layer of plan G is necessary, I’m afraid.”

“Okay,” Hardison sighed. “I’ll start working on drawing him out – but keep in mind, he is one cold-blooded snake, he won’t be easily disturbed.”

“Your insight on our Mark is noted,” Nate smirked. “But you keep in mind everything that he put into keeping the mask of respectable City Council member. Take away his dignity, and he’ll go nuts.”

“Do we _want_ to see Don Lazzara going nuts, Nate?” Sophie asked. Eliot agreed completely.

“Oh, I do,” Nate said. “I do indeed. ‘Cause that’s where he’ll fall.”

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***

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Florence listened to everything they said; both her and Parker were silent. It felt good for the first few minutes, to sit in the darkness, listening the noise below them, chewing on marzipan balls . Thinking.

She gave up on asking about their plans; she knew they wouldn’t tell her anything. But no matter how hard she tried, she had no idea what exactly Hardison managed to do. When they talked with Don Lazzara at the cocktail party, he knew their earbuds were working, so he said nothing that they could use. When he turned his probe on, they couldn’t record anything he said. And after that, until the CMS was destroyed, he said nothing about anything at all. She remembered Sophie saying that even if she had some working electronic with her, she simply couldn’t hear him over the noise. And what was _that_ he was uploading right now?

The platform she was sitting on was stable so she could stand up and even walk a few steps. It felt better.

Parker left her alone without any explanation and melted into the dark. She was sure that the thief went only to climb some ropes or cables, just for the joy of it.

Florence carefully walked five steps to the left, to the end of the platform. Deep below her, she could see the backs of people onstage, and the dark mass of the audience in front of them; the show rolled on.

There was another platform touching hers, and she tested it with her foot first to see if it was stable, then slowly went to that one. From this one, longer and spreading to the side of the backstage, she could see the dark entrance of the backstage tunnel and all the VIP tables. This platform wasn’t empty; she saw an red-orange jacket, two tool boxes and a few bottles, so she stopped, afraid she might accidentally send some of it down to the stage. There was, she was certain, a definite amount of things that Penny could cover up and continue; screwdrivers falling on her head surely didn’t fit that category.

“Don’t move,” Parker’s whisper came from behind, and she felt her stepping onto the same platform. She grabbed the ropes tighter, just in case. Yet, the thief didn’t grab her again; she passed by her, going two steps closer to the other end.

“How long?” she asked when Parker said nothing more, crouching to observe the tool boxes and bottles. No reply came. She waited for five seconds, then moved closer to her.

“Eliot?” she heard Parker calling. “How long it would take you to climb above the stage to us?”

“Too long – what’s going on?”

“We have a few things on the platform where we're waiting… bottles, jacket, boxes… we have two bottles here. One is a half empty Coke, one is a closed Coke. Two liter bottles. Nothing suspicious, right? The closed Coke is lying on its side, the half empty one is leaning on it, held up by the tool boxes. It’s not closed very well, it’s dripping.”

“Parker, point?! Are you in danger?”

“The dripping Coke, Eliot... it’s a glass bottle. Not original, though it’s almost perfectly copied. The other, below that one, is plastic, but not original either, it looks like the plastic is much thicker.”

“The drops are falling from the glass one to the plastic?”

“Right.”

“Get out of there, _now_!!”

“I thought you would say that.” Parker straightened up and Florence took a chance to look at bottles. One drop, slowly, fell down, splashing on the side of the plastic one. She froze, looking at the frowning thief; she would pay no attention to this, she wouldn’t have noticed anything suspicious. Parker had an eye for details almost as good as Nate’s.

Whoever did this, she hoped, made his calculations thoroughly. The acid was destroying the plastic, yet it looked like it was only weakened for now, not yet breached.

“What could be in the plastic one?” she breathed.

“Not an explosive. Something nasty, maybe viruses or something bio hazardous – and it has to be spread by air. The entire hall will be exposed.” Parker took out her earbud and Florence quickly followed.

“They will nag,” the thief explained cutting off the team. “We can’t leave it here. And I don’t dare touch the acid one, it might be triggered or something. It’s secured by the tool boxes and something else, and I can’t see everything. The plastic one, though, I can see clearly, and it’s simply put on the platform under the other. We can move it.”

“Move the virus-containing bottle already corroded with acid?” Florence said.

“Yes. No acid, no more corroding, the bottle stays intact.”

“Can’t we, I don’t know, just roll it to the side a little, away, or something like that? And then call the bomb squad to take care of it?”

“We can’t know how many drops – there goes another one – how many drops until the plastic gives way.” Parker went back and grabbed the bottle, and Florence squinted, catching her breath. The thief slowly raised the thing, keeping it in the same position, observing it closer. “Yep, no hole yet… but the plastic is thinned to almost nothing. I think we found it in the last minutes.”

“And what now?” Florence whispered.

They exchanged a look over the bottle – and they came to the same conclusion at the same time.

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***

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“Don’t worry, don’t come here, we are leaving, everything is fine!”

If Parker said that, Eliot would just continue, but it was Florence and she wasn’t the type to chuckle over a bomb, so he stopped at the door. “We stopped the corroding, and it won’t continue,” Florence went on. “We will try to come closer to you, but-”

“Don’t, we are surrounded by a crowd of agents, and we can be found at every moment,” Nate stopped her. “Parker, find a way through the back of the buildings, through the evacuated part, try to go closer to the Paramount Building. Hardison is on the third floor, you can meet him when he starts his retreat.”

“Knudsen led me through that part, we will find a way,” Florence finished. “Going off now, we have to climb down.”

Both Sophie and Eliot looked at Nate now – he stared blindly in front of him, thinking.

“So, there are coincidences that _are_ coincidences,” he said finally. “Don Lazzara jumped in, not knowing it, into someone else’s plot.”

“Not our job,” Eliot said. “They stopped it – we can let the police and agents deal with the real bomber.”

“We will,” Nate turned around and leaned on the desk in front of the mirror with both hands; he looked tired. “It’s not a problem… the problem is that we can’t continue trying to connect Don Lazzara with the terrorist threat. Hardison?”

“Not listening,” the hacker growled. “Do you know how much time I spent on working on that?! We don’t have very many options left, Nate – you said we have to press him with everything now!”

“Putting agents on Don Lazzara’s trail means giving the real psycho time to run away… or worse, continue,” Nate sighed. “Hardison, get Don Lazzara away from the tables – we have to speed this up. One conversation with him and that’s it, we’re going to Lucille. When you’re done, get your things and be ready to leave, agents will run to you.”

“The upload is started, and it will take time – I can continue that while walking, with my tablet if necessary.”

“Do it.”

“I can feel this shit going dangerously close to Plan M,” Hardison said. His words trailed off into a grumble and typing.

Eliot checked if the riot cop was still unconscious. “I’ll go to the backstage tunnel, into the dark,” he said. “When you stop Don Lazzara, I have to be near and unnoticed.”

“Do that,” Nate nodded, still turned away from them.

Eliot exchanged a glance with the grifter; Sophie had her visor pushed up and she was biting her lip. But she said nothing.

What could she say, anyway? Mention how every damn thing was turning against them? There was no point in saying it out loud, they all could feel it. And the girls knew nothing yet about Hardison and the two bullets, and how slow his retreat would be.

He reached for the door knob, but he stopped. “Nate,” he called. “Maybe it would be wise if they clear out to Lucille when they meet up with Hardison, if they see the way is clear. No point in waiting for us.”

Nate raised his head, looking at him in the mirror.

He waited for his reply, aware that if Nate nodded, it would be a sign of things slipping out of his hands… and in the situation like this one, _that_ was the thing he dreaded the most.

But Nate smiled. “Only if you go with them,” he said. Then added, for Sophie and others, “as protection.”

 _Yes, get them out while they are alive_ , and _no, we still have a chance_ , in the same sentence, and he couldn’t decipher the tone of it.

Sophie put her visor down.

He left.

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%MCEPASTEBIN%


	65. Chapter 65

 

Chapter 65

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***

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“Nate, if you notice Don Lazzara is aware that his probe doesn’t block anything now, pull the plug,” Hardison said while Eliot waited for the three agents in the corridor to stop someone else, so he could slip past them closer to the tunnel and helpful darkness. That was the only way Don Lazzara could leave the ceremony.

It was a couple of seconds until he was able to proceed. It took the same time for Nate to answer.

“You can start now, Hardison,” Nate said. “Sophie will-”

“We are coming back,” Parker jumped in with a low whisper. “We have to join you three now, we faced the entire squad of riot people, they are sweeping the back corridors, one by one.”

“The bomb is secured?”

“Dead as a rock,” Parker said.

“It isn’t, actually, a bomb,” Eliot said, he couldn’t help it. “It has no explosives – that’s why no dog could find it, and packed in the bottles, it skipped-”

“Great, Eliot, that’s fascinating,” Nate cut him off. “In the tunnel yet?”

“Just reached it,” he said. He melted into a shadow, trying not to think about Parker and Florence coming back into this. If they had reached the Paramount Building, at the first sign of disaster they would be close to laundry room and tunnels. They could escape, alive. He went closer to the stage entrance, wondering what was the next thing that could go wrong and lessen their chances. All of them. He had plenty to choose from – every damn step they took seemed to end with a thick wall in front of them. They were running out of directions to turn in, faster than he was running out of air.

Walking made the tickling worse, he took in air in gasps, staggering backwards to the wall and curtains. It looked like simply moving out of the way of busy people; their hurried voices, orders and talking covered up the ragged sound of his breathing. From that position, though, he could see everything important. He looked at the stage and VIP tables under it, just in time to see that Hardison had started.

“Oops,” the hacker sang when the first column of red-colored water jumped from the middle of Don Lazzara’s table, whirled, beautifully, drawing all eyes to it – and then came down, directly into Don Lazzara’s face.

Eliot heard the applause and laughter, but he couldn’t see Don Lazzara’s reaction. The pressure in his chest rose even more and he had to cough, to clear his lungs. He barely had time to pull the earbud out so nobody could hear it.

It didn’t last too long, but it left him bent in pain and barely able to focus. He missed another round of laughter, now without the applause, while clutching at the curtains to help himself straighten up. A roar all around him. And inside his head.

He wiped his face and mouth with the curtains, still holding onto them. Darkness hid his shaking and unstable movements when he put the earbud back in his ear.

“And a fourth time, voilà!” Hardison’s voice was high, very thin and dangerously close to hysteric laughter, that was the first thing he noticed. They had to pull him out. As in now.

Nate noticed it too. “Okay, Hardison, that’s it. Someone is probably on the way to your French guy to see what’s going on with him, leave the room. Start climbing down.”

“In a sec,” Hardison said. “Checking the upload speed and thingies. You’re in position? ‘Cause he is going to be… now.”

That reminded him of their setup, and Eliot forced himself to return to the here, in the tunnel; no matter that Nate’s description was too general, Nate could still be stopped and delayed.

Don Lazzara passed by him, his rigid stance radiating immense madness; he marched through the tunnel, followed by three goons. He had wiped the water from his face and hair, but his clothes were soaked.

Nate stopped him, emerging right in front of his nose. “This way, Mr. Lazzara,” he said blocking him with his arm. “Our coordinator is deeply sorry about this incident. Please follow me and I’ll explain everything.”

“You better have a damn good explanation,” his anger poured out in a toneless, dry voice, almost a whisper. “What kind of a sick joke was this?”

Nate sighed. “It wasn’t our fault,” he admitted, taking him aside from the tunnel, near the end of the corridor. They were just a couple of meters from an intersection, where two corridors met. One of them led deeper into building, into the empty part, and no people were going in that direction.

“Enough, Nate, stop,” Eliot quickly said. “I can’t follow you into the lit part now, don’t go too far away from me.”

Nate slowed and stopped, and Don Lazzara and the three thugs stopped with him. “Here we’ll have a little privacy, not so many people running around,” Nate said, lowering his voice to a confidential murmur. “We suspect that someone took over our special effects room. Our people are already on their way to find the person responsible for this. Do you have any idea who would try to target you? And why?”

Don Lazzara stopped every move and looked at Nate. Eliot took one small step closer, watching the mob boss and his posture. It took only a second before he went from the rigid to relaxed.

“Here we go, Nate,” he whispered. “Trouble.”

Nate’s face, while returning the studying gaze, lost his professional emptiness, and one side of his mouth went up.

“I expected this contact,” Don Lazzara said softly. “So, the Deceiver – you really have to get rid of that cat.” He reached with his hand and took one white hair from Nate’s jacket. “I’m slightly allergic to cats, and when I first met your dear Inspector Lohman, I removed the same colored fur… the devil is in the details.”

“Couldn’t agree more,” Nate said. And smiled again. “Usually, when I deal with opponents, I meet them first, so I couldn’t bring you down without giving you the same honor. Nice touch with the terrorism threat, by the way. But it didn’t work as it should have.”

“You think?”

“We are all still alive, and working on our plan without any problems. There is, though, one thing with that terrorism threat… are you aware that it’s real? We found the bomb. And before you ask… I don’t think you planted the real bomb just to justify our killing – I just need you to confirm that, to be sure.”

Don Lazzara stayed silent for a moment – his back was turned to Eliot so both cameras that Nate put in the corridor covered him face front. It was necessary, but he couldn’t see his eyes and face, and see what he really thought.

“No, I had no idea there was a real bomb,” Don Lazzara finally said. “Why is that confirmation so important?”

“I have to decide how to approach the police and agents – they have to know the danger is real. Just that.” Nate took a look at his watch, slowly. “Okay, that’s it. You are free to go.”

That brought a little of the tension back; Eliot could read the way he titled his head while looking at Nate. But he could read the change in the goons’ stance much better; they waited for the signal to kill, and waited eagerly. “Sophie, get ready,” Eliot whispered. Nate couldn’t give any clear sign now.

“I am free to go?” Don Lazzara asked politely. “You’re _dismissing_ me?”

“Yes,” Nate said lightly. “I saw what I wanted to see, and that isn’t much. If that terrorism threat and this – putting every agent on our trail – were the only things you have, I must say I’m a little disappointed. Your nephew showed much more creativity. Too bad he didn’t make it.”

Eliot took one more step, stopping at the very edge of the tunnel; the three goons were ready to attack, they waited only for Don Lazzara’s command. For a moment he thought he would give it – but even mentioning Knudsen’s name didn’t push him over the edge. Don Lazzara knew something was up, and he wanted to see what.

“You put so much hope and money into that boy,” Nate continued. “You must be devastated.”

“He was a bad investment.” Don Lazzara paused, then slowly went on. “Yet he will be avenged. Your writer will die, and all of you, one by one. I think I will start with you. Now.”

A riot cop, passing by the small quartet in the corridor stopped, returned two steps, and looked at them better. “Trouble?” a deep voice came from under the helmet; that was probably the only word Sophie dared say.

Don Lazzara looked at the cop, and they all held their breaths, while he thought. “Yes, Officer, you might say that,” he finally said. “I don’t think this gentleman has a valid ID. Would you be so kind as to scan his badge?”

Sophie pulled a scanner out and swept it over Nate’s badge – she let out one mumbled sound, grabbed his arm and turned him face to the wall. She actually did that pretty well, Eliot had to admit.

Nate turned his head to look at Don Lazzara while she handcuffed him. “And this is a mistake, Don Lazzara,” he grinned. “Once in the hands of the law, you can’t touch me. I just slipped through your fingers… and I’ll come after you again. This isn’t over.”

Well, if that shit didn’t move him – _what a terrible cliché_ , Florence’s voice said in his head - Eliot really didn’t know what would. They had one more thing to push him, but it would be better not to use it now. _Or ever_ , he added to himself.

Don Lazzara nodded to one of his thugs. “Go with this nice man and make sure everything goes well.”

As well as it went for the two Smiths. One more cop dead, a murder weapon in Nate’s hand, and a Dvorak Security agent celebrated for his quick reaction.

“Sophie, when you move away, you will have to stall him still close to people, until we got everything. I need time to pass by them, and if they don’t move…” Eliot stopped when Sophie pushed Nate down the corridor, followed by one of the guys, but stopped after she took just ten steps away from Don Lazzara. She raised her hand in warning, as if listening to something, and then pulled a phone out.

The cop on duty, taking a call from his boss, taking a few steps aside to make some privacy between him and civilians… she did all of that as smoothly as if she’d spent twenty years in service. She also calculated the distance perfectly. Don Lazzara and his two remaining goons were free to talk, and she was still close enough to Nate to stop them from doing anything here.

The goon Don Lazzara sent with her returned to his boss, his features set in a nervous smile. “If he tries to run, or something, I can kill him without killing the cop,” he said quietly. His voice sounded recorded; Hardison sent the cameras’ recordings directly into their earbuds – all of them were too far away from Don Lazzara for their earbuds to catch their conversation.

“He won’t try to run, you fool, he thinks he is safe with the cop,” Don Lazzara’s voice went into a low snarl. “And killing the cop is more important than killing him – we need victims for murderers, to cover up the real target. Kill the cop first, and arrange the gun and everything. Call for backup immediately after that, I want all of them to press harder, to finish them all.”

The goon nodded and went back to Sophie.

“Got everything, Hardison?” Nate asked in a low voice. He kept his head lowered the whole time.

“Yep, all here, I’m working on the footage. You know I’ll have to make combinations, and it ain’t easy. No time for mistakes-”

“Wait,” Don Lazzara said just when Eliot thought he would finally turn around and leave to put some space between himself and the murder scene, and he cursed silently. _Speaking of all the things that could go wrong_ … “We will go with you. I have more men that can help escort this man, they are near. If you wait just a few seconds…” Don Lazzara waved to the second goon and he quickly went in the opposite direction. Any of Dvorak Security could be just one turn in the corridor away.

“Eliot, you’ll have to do it,” Nate said with a sigh.

Dammit. “Okay. Sophie, stall.” He pulled out his phone and dialed the number he had ready.

Don Lazzara’s phone rang. He took it, staring at the display.

“Good evening, Don Lazzara,” he said politely.

Silence. He watched his back stiffening, and his hand touching his man to stop him from talking. “The Voice of Renan Villacorta,” Don Lazzara said slowly. They all could hear his words through his earbud now, and he knew they all could feel the tense caution in his voice.

“I’m glad you remember our little talk – and I’m also glad you memorized this number. Don’t have time for explaining.”

“What does your boss want to say to me now?”

Sophie pulled Nate on his feet, and pushed him in front of her. The first goon took one step after them, turned to Don Lazzara with a question, but his boss just waved him off to go, occupied with the phone. Eliot was very careful the relief he felt didn’t go into his voice. The last of Don Lazzara’s men stayed with his boss, not following the trio.

“He asked me to tell you,” he said, “that we did a little token of a good will between our… organizations. We have our people near you, at the ceremony. And yet, you will live. Isn’t that nice of us? Unfortunately, to make this call possible, as you probably already noticed, we had to turn off your CMS-19.”

He paused, letting all that sink deep, giving him time to become aware of everything he had said to Nate, and to think about the possibility that he'd been recorded.

“To be honest, and off the record,” he continued a little softer, “I personally think my boss is just showing off. It’s useful to remind your opponents of your presence, and show them what you're able to do. If needed. That’s all. Have a good night, Don Lazzara.”

He ended the call, counting the seconds, counting Sophie’s steps, half mad with worry… but their luck held this time, Don Lazzara didn’t hesitate too much.

“Get all the men. I don’t trust Villacorta,” he snarled to the last goon. “If you notice anything suspicious, anyone that may look like a Chilean, kill without order. Get rid of the writer’s whole crew, and prepare an armored vehicle for me. But not now, this might be an attempt to lure me out – we will leave when the ceremony ends, use the crowd. Move. I’m going back to the table, send three men to me immediately.”

They separated and went in opposite directions.

Five seconds passed before they couldn’t see him anymore. _If Sophie didn’t remove Nate’s handcuffs_ … Four seconds flashed by when he ran, not paying attention to the people near him, to the end of the corridor where the trio disappeared. _If the goon decided to kill them near people, to have witnesses handy_ … Two more seconds while he took a turn, bouncing off a corner to speed up.

A gun went off.

.

.

.

***

.

“This camera,” Hardison explained to the French guy, pointing at the upper left screen, “will show the police the exact platform where the bomb was.” He taped a small USB stick to the middle screen. “Here, you have everything I found about my boss’s false terrorism threat. Only that, no matter it wasn’t his bomb, would put him in trouble and destroy his public image. There are a few more things there, so make sure the police get it. The rest of it you’ll see when the others see it. And the most important thing, pay attention… send police immediately to the basement hall with the stage replica. There they’ll find one broken jamming system, with possible useful data on it.”

The guy muttered something unintelligible through the Hardison’s tie wrapped around his mouth.

“I’m leaving – meeting my friends at the ceremony, to see the end of it.” Hardison turned his chair so their eyes could meet. “You’ll be a hero,” he said seriously. “Your reputation will not be ruined, and you’ll be in the spotlight for a long time, because of your art, and your role in this mess.” He patted the guy's shoulder. “I enjoyed our time together, and if we meet again, I’ll tell you one thing you can do to connect your fourth camera and laser better.” The guy’s eyes went wide.

Hardison left him and got back to his desk; he pulled the hard drive from one laptop and brought it under the fire sensor. The auto destruct would trigger the alarm. He set everything and checked once more.

Just in case, he had cut the connection between the Paramount Building alarms, and those in the Opera House – it was too dangerous, with thousands of people gathered in a small place, to start a panic without a real need. This way only this building would ring.

He took the other laptop – it weighted a ton in his shaky hands – and continued to type on it as he left. The tablet and phone were useful, but not good enough for the complicated footage editing.

“Hardison, they're moving fast!” Parker’s pissed off voice caught him in the corridor. “Their dots are moving away from ours!”

He checked to see what she was watching on her phone. “Nah, your screen is small, they ain’t too far away. Take a left turn and you’re there.”

“We were almost there, and now-”

A gunshot.

“Oh,” Parker said. “Well, if nothing, they stopped. Turn left Florence, and stop that keening sound. That draws rats closer, it doesn’t repel them.”

Hardison listened to the sounds, but all he could hear was the grunts of a fight, and running steps.

The corridor floated under his feet. He wiped a cold sweat from his face with his sleeve, and continued.

.

.

.

***

.

 

It took just one second to assess the fight in the corridor when Eliot burst around the last corner. Sophie on the ground. _Getting up, unharmed_. A gun on the floor. _Thrown from the goon's hand after he shot_. Nate and the goon fighting over the knife the goon pulled out after disarmed. _Nate unharmed, but losing_.

Nate could throw good punches when needed, but he couldn’t fight a trained fighter with a knife, at least not for long. He was head-butted and pushed against the wall, and the knife was just two inches from his neck, moving slowly down, his resistance faltering.

And he was more than five meters away. Though he was in full speed already, he had maybe a second, or two, to stop that knife. He had enough time to curse Nate’s trick with his holster; his own knife would’ve come handy now.

Instead of trying to run faster, he let himself go, went down, and slid on the floor, hitting into the goon’s ankles with his feet first. The knife went down, missed Nate’s neck and stabbed him in the upper arm instead. Not good, but the alternative was much worse.

His slide ended right before the opposite wall. He could only hope that Nate finished off the fallen goon – there was nothing he could do now. He stopped curling into a fetal position to lessen the pain; it wouldn’t bring any relief now. The plan was to get on all fours first, then on his knees, and with the help of the wall, to get up, but everything turned over onto him, and he ended up on his back. _Shit, no,_ he was too low. The weight on his chest was pushing him to the ground, he had no strength to move; when he tried to breathe in, only a gurgling sound went through his throat.

Something jerked his jacket up and he opened his eyes; Nate pulled him up with one hand, putting him on his feet in just one fierce move. _Yep, adrenaline does that to people,_ he wanted to say, but he couldn’t. He waited dreadful seconds, while only Nate’s hand held him on his feet, for the blood to clear out, to breathe. But it worked – the air cleared the darkness and he was able to stand on his own.

He shook his head to remove the last black dots from his eyes, and only then Nate’s hand loosened its grip.

Behind Nate, Sophie watched the fallen goon, pretending she wasn’t looking at them at all.

“To Lucille. We're done here,” Nate said. “Parker, Florence, retreat. Hardison, hurry up.”

“Yep, it’s time. Nothing to do here anymore,” he whispered, not because he needed to say all that, more to let him know he could spare so much air on talking. “Besides…” he pointed at his arm. “You can’t walk around… like this.”

Nate sighed, looking at the handle sticking out of his jacket sleeve. “Movie props? We’re at the PVA, it could pass…” he reached for the knife, but Eliot slapped his hand away as fast as he could.

“Don’t even think – _never_ remove a blade without a professional's help. Leave it there. Can you move your arm?”

Nate tried a few small waves. “Yeah. Not much and it hurts like hell, but it’ll do until we get to Mass Gen. Sophie, leave him, we have to go. This gunshot will draw every-”

“It already did,” Hardison quickly said. “Get away from, _now_! Go through the corridor, deeper in the building, and hurry! They are already near the cameras that you left behind, I see them – checking every room along the corridor and coming to you very fast.”

They moved while he was talking; Eliot shooed Sophie in front of him. Nate was by his side and he didn’t seem unstable on his feet. For now. He ignored the black dots that darkened everything and followed Sophie through the last door in the corridor – they couldn’t go deeper than that.

 _Or they could_. Darkness waited for them, but when she turned on the light, they found themselves in another long passage, empty. The evacuated part behind the Opera House, he remembered. Hadn’t Parker said something about the riot squad sweeping this part and blocking their way? As if answering his thoughts, the thief’s voice echoed in their ears.

“Okay, now you’re finally moving in our direction. Go to the end of this corridor and wait for us.”

“In a minute,” Nate said. “Hardison, progress?”

“The first part of the upload is going-”

“ _Your_ progress! Where are you?”

“Climbed the stairs down to the second floor of Paramount building. Took our camera. Entered the first floor and going into the back of my building, the same way they took Florence around. In a few minutes I’ll be able to tell you when our paths will meet. You just continue going back in the Opera House.”

“Got it. We all go into the back parts – we turn slightly left, you turn slightly right, and we’ll get close.”

“I just said exactly that. You have somebody stupid with you, so you have to repeat in simpler words?”

“Shut up and hurry.”

“Florence would say it was explaining the scene to the audience,” Hardison murmured to himself. “You can’t _narrate_ the scene, Nate. Worse than a flashback.”

“Stop. Talking.”

They almost reached the end of that long corridor when Sophie stopped, checking the doors on the left side. They were unlocked. She stood motionless for a second, then took her helmet off and put it on the floor. She pulled something tiny out of her hair, and ran _back_.

“Sophie, what-!”

“I can buy us a minute or two,” she said, not turning around. She reached the corridor door and bent to the lock. “Not digital, those are simple key locks. Until now, they simply opened everything, entered the rooms, searching them, and repeating the process. Every door in this corridor will be locked now.” She went to the left side, from door to door. “They’ll have to wait for someone with a key – or they’ll have to break into each room, which is more likely. That will take some time.”

“Good,” Nate nodded. “Keep two doors on the right side unlocked, they will search those rooms inch by inch, thinking we entered there – and if they open into other rooms or corridors, it will lead them to the right. We’re going left in the next corridor.”

Eliot glanced over the door that led out – a solid, metal door, the same as at the beginning of the corridor. Those two alone would keep them several minutes until they broke through. But it wasn’t enough.

“Don Lazzara called all men, Nate,” he said. “We have riot cops here at our tail and in the rest of the building… but Dvorak Security will spread underground. Those here will chase us directly into their hands, they share the same communication channels and they’ll know our progress and where we are going. They know our escape routes. We’ll be in a crossfire.”

“One problem at a time,” Nate said quietly. “Parker, Florence, status.”

“Move one meter away from the door,” Parker said. They both quickly did it, knowing that Parker’s orders always should be taken very literally, but they were lucky. No explosives, just a clanging and metal sound above their heads.

A ventilation shaft ended on the floor in front of them, and two dark blue technicians slid down. Florence first, with Parker’s backpack. She looked unharmed, but her eyes were unstrung and huge, and her makeup was smudged all over her face again.

Parker followed her in a second, with a big silver egg in her hands.

“What’s that, Parker?” Nate said tiredly.

“Your bomb,” she grumbled. “Plastic was corroded, couldn’t risk it… we wrapped it with duct tape. _Nothing_ can get through those layers.”

“Excellent,” Nate whispered. “A retreat with a bottle full of viruses. Preferably under gun fire.”

“Good thing you mentioned that,” Parker pushed the egg in his hands and turned Florence around, digging in the backpack on her back. She returned with a black marker and wrote VIRUSES! DO NOT OPEN! on the egg.

Nate rolled his eyes, but said nothing about it. “Go help Sophie lock the doors.”

They’d lost almost a minute here, and though it would buy them time later, their wiggle room was getting thin. Eliot could hear doors opening in the corridor they'd left; they were closing in. But Parker was faster than Sophie; she took the right side.

Florence still hasn’t said a word. She just stood there, rubbing her hand on her coveralls, cleaning the dirt; her eyes swiveled all over, unable to stop and focus on something.

He went closer to her, but stopped two steps away. “What’s wrong?” he asked, knowing that everything was wrong, and that question was dumb.

She looked at him, then past him; he followed her eyes, glued for one long moment to the knife in Nate’s arm. The flicker of despair was clear on her face when she turned to him again, trying to smile.

“R-rats,” she stuttered. “When we stopped, a rat s-sat on my hand and looked at my face. Rats everywhere.” She kept rubbing her hand to get rid of that touch and he held out his hand to stop her. She let out a small sob and threw herself into him; it almost knocked him off of his feet, but he wrapped his arms around her, steadying them both.

He had no time left. He didn’t care what others thought about it, he just held her tight, stealing these seconds. She kept talking, though, a river of words muffled by her face buried in his shoulder, and that made him smile.

“… and only thing I haven’t done yet is swimming – you people, your lives are a terrible mess, you have to do something about it, it’s not human to crawl and fly and- if I ever did anything remotely like this in my episode, it would be science fiction, not simple action and- I think I’ll faint now. Haven’t fainted even once until now. I definitely d-deserve it.”

Damn. After all these days, he was almost close to a real laugh, and he couldn’t have chosen a worst time for it; laughing would end in coughing, and that wasn’t something he wanted her to see. So he just grinned instead, keeping his breathing under control.

 _No impossible things_. He had said that to calm her worries, ages ago… but now, while he listened to her babbling, feeling her in his arms, he knew it wasn’t just bullshit. She made everything seem possible. _Worth trying. Worth living_.

She raised her head and looked at him, her eyes still stricken and wide open. “C-can we go home now?” she whispered. “I heard everything you said to Don Lazzara. This is over?”

“First Lucille, then Mass Gen,” Nate answered before he could think of an answer.

She turned her head to Nate. “So you have enough now to bring him down?”

“We had enough already, even before this talk, this was just the last layer.”

Eliot knew that Nate just gave her something to think about, to collect herself, and it worked. She remained silent and he could feel how she went through everything from the beginning, trying to find out what they could have, with all the jammers and CMS.

There wasn’t anything that he would like more than holding her still, but when she stopped talking, the wheezing in his chest was too loud. He pushed her away to arm's length.

Damn, he needed to sit, his legs were shaking. Walking seemed easier than simple standing, and everything in him screamed to hurry this up. They had to move, they were sitting ducks here.

The door knob on the corridor doors turned right at the moment Parker and Sophie finished with everything and joined them.

“Ready?” Nate returned the egg to Parker. Banging at the door begun, loud metal clangs.

They left that corridor and entered another, going left, after Sophie locked and jammed the lock after them.

It was time to start climbing down, to find a way to the basement of the Paramount Building.

.

.

.

***

.

“If everything goes as planned, the upload will be finished by the time, or before, we reach Mass Gen,” Hardison’s voice was barely above a whisper, and Eliot knew it wasn’t because the hacker was cautious so nobody would hear him. “Ya think they watch the PVA there? It’d be great – we can sit in the reception room and watch TV while Betsy tears Eliot apart.”

He had ten different snarling replies to that, but he wasn’t able to make a sound. The pressure in his chest was alarming by now, and every breath was a struggle. They climbed down, and now they were behind the building connection… a few more turns and they would be near the laundry room and the entrance to the tunnels.

He was barely aware of the group of people behind him – he chased them all behind his back and that proved to be a good decision. Two agents had jumped them from the front and he knocked them down while passing them, not even stopping to check their weapons. Parker did that. He couldn’t stop now, not even slow down; everything would go to hell.

A fast pace demanded more oxygen, deeper breaths. And faster.

He was able to focus only on the immediate steps in front of him: another step, another door, another turn. Everything else was in a fog, swirling around him without any meaning. No strength left for calculations and assessment, he could only act.

He knocked two more men out cold before he was aware that one of them wasn’t an agent at all, but one of the bomb squad people.

The shrieking sound of a fire alarm cleared their corridors a little. He couldn’t tell if that was connected or not, but nobody crossed their way after that. All the agents were probably sent from this back area to the Paramount Building to help evacuate the media center, press and lobby still full of people. Those behind them weren’t distracted by that, they had their prey in front of them, and they all could hear the doors slamming behind them, never too far away.

Hardison was talking in his ear again, but white noise covered it, mixed with a concrete buzzing. When Nate caught his arm and stopped him, he needed four entire seconds to realize what he wanted. And three more to concentrate on his face and his words.

“We are about to reach the laundry room corridor, but from the back side, through the fire exit, not from the side where the stairs and elevators are,” Nate talked slowly. He wasn’t sure if that was because he knew he had trouble concentrating, or his blood loss started affecting him too. “This is the last spot where we can wait for Hardison, without somebody jumping us.”

“How long?” he managed to say. Stopping was dangerous. Speaking stirred up all the shit in his lungs and he knew he wouldn’t be able to delay coughing more than a minute. He turned around, searching for some place where he could go, away from them all, but the white empty corridor had no turns. Maybe some room? Parker was going after them, locking everything behind, and if he went now to-

“I need your suit jacket.” Sophie was near him, too. He would ask her, normally, what the point in changing now was, but instead of talking, he simply let her take off his jacket and tie.

Nate checked his watch and pulled out his phone. “Patrick, listen. We have your bomb. We are heading out, taking it away from the Opera House and people, but we don’t know yet where and how long it will take. We’ll call you to send your bomb people to take it when we’re out or near. Send your people to the French guy’s control room, Hardison left a few useful things. We also have to report a collapse in the underground tunnels, one construction worker ended up under a pile of dirt. Many bruises, possible internal injuries and confirmed bleeding in the chest cavity-” he stopped and sighed. “Yep, I know, but _you_ tell him that. Also, two guests from the ceremony will report being mugged when they left, attacked with a gun and knife. It would be wise if you send someone you trust to take their statements when they get to Mass Gen. No, nothing serious. Okay, talk to you later, be ready.” He ended the call. “Bonnano is with his men on the other side of the block, they are securing control points.”

“Confirmed bleeding,” Florence whispered. “What- how confir-”

 _Thank you, Nate_. “Exaggerating,” he whispered, turning away from her. He needed to continue walking, he couldn’t _stand_.

“This will help,” Parker’s voice stopped him as the thief materialized in front of him. The same words she had used in the apartment near Mass Gen, in the bathroom; he flinched. It took five seconds to notice her hand with palm up, with marzipan balls on it. He thought of all the things he should tell her about it, but said nothing. Just smiled and took the balls, putting them into his pocket.

The door of one of the rooms opened while he watched her, and Hardison came out. He held his laptop in front of him, resting it on the one hand, typing with the other. He was as gray as his suit was, with bloodshot, drained eyes that never left the screen.

Hardison finally raised his eyes to them, and blinked. “There you are,” he whispered, leaning dangerously to the left while standing, without noticing it. The wall stopped his inevitable fall, and he looked at it, surprised. Eliot knew the feeling; attacking walls were a common thing the past half an hour. Behind them, Eliot heard Sophie’s gasp of dismay; good, all the gathered cooing would now pour onto Hardison’s head, he would be spared.

“Have any trouble on your way?” Nate’s question was a masked inquiry about the eventual new wounds, but Hardison didn’t get it.

“Nah, met a few agents… but I chased them away, said I can’t stop uploading… and something else. Can’t remember clearly. They sent me out to escape the fire. Many reporters staggered around with laptops, uploading, while going out.”

That was the last clear thing he said, because Sophie jumped him, and their interaction was a confusing mixture of gasps, whining, explaining and who knows what. He tuned them out.

Parker didn’t join them – she stood stiffly, a few steps away, taking in Hardison’s posture, processing it. Her eyes were lost. Almost as lost as Florence’s were, and he sighed. In order to get out of this alive, they all had to be collected and able to react.

Nate was the one who moved them all, pushed them out of this pause; he even went first into the engine and laundry room corridor, though Eliot tried to catch up with him. Not this time; but a few minutes had passed after the fire alarm went off, and if they were lucky, people were cleared out already. Workers had only to climb up the stairs to the lobby.

Even the sounds behind them became distant and scattered. Sophie’s plan worked, their chase had to knock down every door, and not knowing where exactly their prey went, they were inevitably scattered and slowed down.

He even felt one dangerous flicker of hope. They got this far, almost reached the tunnels. There was still chance to take them out alive.

Then he remembered the washing machine.

.

.

.

***

.

They’d lost three minutes pushing that damn thing off the door. It had saved their lives when it stopped Goon A’s bullets at the laundry room door, but now… the damn thing weighted sixteen tons. Eliot barely saw anything through the black curtain before his eyes.

Not only did it slow them down, it _stopped_ them. All three of them were just able to stagger inside through the narrow slit they made. That final effort, when he pushed the door the last time, was too much. His sitting on the floor was barely slowed falling; Hardison wasn’t any more elegant than he was. Nate waited until all of them were inside, then closed the door after them. The knife in his arm clearly moved while pushing the door, because his face was white, and he left a trail of blood dripping down his fingers when he carefully, step by step, moved to a box to sit on it.

Sophie locked the door and got busy with their bags and things. Parker stood, holding her egg, watching all three of them in turns. Florence was marching around Sophie, murmuring words he couldn’t recognize.

It was never like this.

They had three women to get out alive, through the bullets that would await them. Three of them were barely able to stand. No, two of them. He was done. He was barely able to _sit_.

Pain was exhausting. With every passing minute, his blood loss was more serious. He feared it only because of blood gathering in his lungs, but until now, when he sat slumped in a shaking heap, he forgot to fear of bleeding out. It wouldn’t kill him, too little time for that… but it destroyed him worse than three new bullets would. And no rage, no anger, now could help this, make him move, make him fight.

He drifted away, in and out of consciousness, waiting for the sitting to help him get it together.

Nothing happened. He just sank deeper.

He gave up on that, and concentrated only on shallower breathing, not to trigger any coughing.

Sounds on his left side, a soft clicking, and movement, showed him that Nate got up from the box, and that Hardison pulled his tablet out. That forced him to open his eyes, to check on them. Whatever Hardison was working on, he hoped wasn’t very important, because he looked as if he had no idea what keys he was pressing. With growing fear, he realized that Hardison might not have the strength to even get up; the tablet slipped from his hands two times while he watched him. Nate stood pretty stable, but he was blinking the dizziness away, with questionable success.

The two of them weren’t used to functioning under pain and weakness – any normal person wasn’t – they simply didn’t know how to spread their last bits of strength to last as long as needed. He knew how… but his last bits were already spent.

“We can’t carry all the spare clothes,” Sophie said and he slowly turned his head to her. She was giving him a red-orange jacket. Just then he noticed their bags were emptied. _Right, a construction worker. Caught in a cave-in_. Damn, putting the jacket on demanded _moving_. He gritted his teeth and finished it, before she tried to help him.

“I put all of them to wash, on the highest temperature,” Sophie continued only when he was done. “They will literally cook for hours, no traces left on them.” She looked at them all, her eyes radiated calmness, not the hurry she should’ve been feeling. “You are slow, all of you. You will go behind us.”

 _What_?

“Parker, you go first down the ladder, Florence after you with your backpack, and-”

“No way,” he whispered, hoisting himself up. Hardison was on his feet just one second after him, and even Nate looked perplexed by her words. “Dvorak Security will be in the tunnels, maybe all of them – don’t even think-”

Mobsters would swarm from under their feet, and very soon agents would burst through the door – it was inevitable. He was the only one who could go first and clear the way for them, there wasn’t any other way. And he couldn’t explain that to her, he only had the strength to keep one hand on the wall and glare at her.

“Get the flashlights ready,” he breathed, pissed off. “Parker, open the trap door.”

.

.

.

***

.

Florence’s nails were dug in her palms so hard she was certain the marks would never leave her skin. It took a mental effort to unclench her fists when she followed Eliot down the ladder, forcing herself to start immediately after him, to be as close as possible.

She knew why Sophie pushed them all to move, she saw the pain in her eyes while doing it – they needed that hospital and waiting was lowering their chances. Yet, she hated her for making them go, in pain; an irrational, hysteric hate that filled her eyes and blurred the darkness in the tunnels.

She jumped from the ladders; others followed slowly. Parker was last, she closed the hatch above them. That sound sucked out all the air around them, sealing them in the tomb.

Sounds were strangely clear down here, with no background noise. She could clearly hear his ragged, troubled breathing, just one step away. Flashlights swiveled on the wet dust below their feet. The scent that hit her nostrils was a mixture of sewer and damp soil, but it felt salty.

“The tide is rising,” Parker whispered, noticing that ocean scent at the same time.

“Gimme a minute, don’t move,” Hardison put his laptop on the ground and kneeled in front of it, typing. “'T’s important.” Nate’s hand on his shoulder kept him from diving nose first into the screen.

While she watched Hardison, Eliot continued down the passage, and stopped after ten steps on the edge of complete darkness. His back was turned to all of them, watching, waiting.

She slowly went to him and stood by his side; they both faced the darkness. Standing on the edge of a cliff, with no wings for flying. And she was forced to grow a pair while falling.

No words came to her. She had nothing to say, so she just reached out her hand and took his.

She wasn’t a fool. She knew what was in front of them, how slim their chances were. Even now, in this dread that was slowly freezing her inside, she saw everything around them in cuts and scenes, and camera angles. She could recognize a kill box season finale even if she didn’t write it.

She smiled. Just then he turned to her, as if he felt that smile emerging.

“What?” he whispered. Yes, he felt the change.

“Strength and courage,” she whispered back. “You were bullshitting me when I asked you what do you do when there’s none left.”

“I did?”

“Yes, because now I know what you do when you don’t have any,” she raised her eyes to his, barely visible in the background light, and smiled again. “You simply continue without them.”

He said nothing, watching her. She couldn’t decipher what flickered in his eyes, but his fingers wrapped around hers. The same hand that shattered the thick glass panel, rough, maybe even broken, now gently held hers. And it brought peace. She closed her eyes and just felt that touch.

But she only had him for seconds.

“I got them,” Hardison said.

 _And… cut_ , a cruel voice in her head whispered. A silent wail, accumulating in her chest for some time, almost escaped. They turned around to look at the hacker.

“Phones, I mean… Feds are still above us,” Hardison continued in a whisper. “Very close to the laundry room now. Three of them are down here, but far away. I’m collecting all other phones, Dvorak Security has their service numbers, one of the phones on the Goons we left in the woods had all I needed to… yes, I got them too. Damn… a lot of green dots around us. Eliot, they are close, they are emerging on the screen as I locate them, one by one, and the nearest are… here?”

Hardison raised his head from the screen, with alarmed eyes. That look stood before her eyes even while she flew, pushed, and slammed into the wall. She heard a bonk when her head collided with the wall. Moldy, wet cement gave way, crumbling under her cheek. The gunshot was just background noise for a moment.

When she turned around, two men were lying right where she had stood just a few seconds ago, and Eliot was already reaching for her.

He took just one step and stopped with a muffled curse. “Stay there,” his voice fell to a soundless whisper. Before she could move, he swayed and fell to his knees, hiding his face in a crook of his elbow. A numbing fear froze her; she watched his attempts to stop a coughing fit, a convulsion that bent him forward.

And she knew. She didn’t have to see his sleeve, a new bright red shade mixing with the orange.

She forced her battered brain to move her legs; it took only a few steps to reach him and hold him. But when she knelt beside him, he stopped coughing.

“This is… helping,” she heard muffled words; his head was lowered, she couldn’t see his face through the shadows of his hair. “Looks nasty, but isn’t.”

His breathing _was_ a little clearer, though he sounded like he'd been running for hours – but he shouldn’t waste the air on calming her down. “Shut up,” she whispered. She took her backpack, searching for some cloth to give him, repeating inwardly, desperately, that they were on their way to a hospital. Just minutes away.

“Nate, two more are coming,” Hardison whispered, she saw him out of the corner of her eye. Hardison was getting up, Nate was already coming to them.

“Stay back,” Eliot breathed; their earbuds caught it, but they continued. “You go to the wall,” he went on, wiped his face with something she put in his hand, and got up. Faster than she did. Maybe he was right, maybe he wasn’t lying. _Maybe_ , this helped. Her dread and hope fought, but the only result was the trammeling of all speech and thought. She was shivering uncontrollably, absolutely sure they all could hear her teeth chattering.

Two dark green uniforms jumped them before she took even one step; two guns in their hands, raised to their chests, one blink of an eye before pulling the trigger – and he stepped into them with elegant ease. Just stepped. His right hand raised the one hand with the gun in the air and kept it up, twisting the wrist, breaking the fingers caught in the trigger – the left one hit the throat of the other man at the same time. The next second, two screams – and he grabbed their heads and smashed them together, sending them both to the ground.

No effort, a routine dance, perfect efficacy. Just then she blinked, when he bent to take their guns. He emptied one and reached for the second, when another shadow spurted from the darkness. The hit from a heavy shoe hit him sideways and sent him to the wall – she saw a gun following his fall, turning to him – but something flew from behind them, hitting the attacker in the upper body, knocking him down into a wriggling, keening mess. The bullet whizzed and scraped the wall above Eliot’s head.

Eliot was already getting up. “Two of them?! Seriously?” his annoyed hiss was a hiss of pain, not anger.

“I don’t see _them_ ,” Hardison growled. “I see their phones! This one didn’t have one.”

“Great.” He stumbled, going to the fallen man, but his fist knocked the moaning down to silence. And stood in the air for a second, as he stared at the knife in the man’s shoulder. When he turned his head to them, she froze again; his eyes were wild.

“What the hell have you done?!” his voice slashed at Nate who stood confused for a moment, then looked at his arm.

“Ah, well, I wasn’t thinking…”

“No, you weren’t thinking, you acted, right? Right?! It’s not your damn job to-” he stopped when Nate shrugged and raised his hand to check it. Even she, even in this dim light, could see the freezing of his face when the blood burst out.

Eliot sprinted in the millisecond, tackling him to the ground. Sophie’s scream cut through her naked nerves, and Florence flew to them.

But it was too much, her mind shut down. Every sound was a roaring noise; Hardison’s warnings, Sophie’s frantic words, the thumping of her own heartbeat covering that mess completely, erasing it. Her eyes caught only images, short blinks; Eliot pressing Nate’s arm with both hands; blood squirting through his fingers, a cut artery spurting with every heartbeat; the shadows that fell on them. _Shadows_?

Parker’s warning shouted near her ear, the thief pushed her aside. Something heavy slammed into her ribs and she gasped in pain, as the killer stepped over her to the others. The buzzing of a tazer was the only sound she heard, their words had no meaning to her.

A sequence of slow motion images carved deep into her mind: Eliot raising his burning eyes to the man with the gun, not moving, keeping the pressure; a dark shape that stepped between him and the gun; the muzzle flash when the gun went off, thrusting the dark shape into the wall. Hits, more tazer buzzing.

And silence.

The darkness seemed to pulsate.

“The next mobsters are two minutes away, and closing in,” Hardison’s voice sounded absolutely calm, as if nothing happened. A level and even voice.

She stared at him. The hacker’s eyes were glazed. There wasn’t anything calm in him, he was just too drained to raise his voice.

Florence hoisted herself on all fours, and got up, blinking stupidly. One blink, Parker was hovering over Sophie curled on the ground like a black mess. One blink, Hardison was disarming the fallen men. One blink, Eliot was calling her. One blink, she was near him.

“…nod if you understood,” he said. What? She gazed in his eyes, still burning, still desperate. “Flo, put your hands here,” he repeated, slower. She did what he had told her. “Press as hard as you can.” With that, he got up, leaving her with both her hands soaked in blood. She let out a small meep, terrified.

Nate looked as if he was already dead, deathly white in the pale light, but she could feel the pulse under her palms, blood still trying to burst out. She couldn’t stare at his closed eyes anymore, she looked after Eliot.

“Nobody told me this hurts!” Sophie’s whisper was almost a sob, but she was _talking_.

“Bullet, close range,” Eliot said. “The riot vest stopped it, but couldn’t stop the impact. You have to check you ribs later. Can you walk?”

“I don’t want to.”

“I know, Soph. Now move.” He turned around and looked at all of them. She could clearly see desperation creeping into his eyes again. “Hardison?” he whispered. “If we stop keeping pressure, he has less than a minute.”

“Three phones one minute away,” Hardison said. He didn’t look at Nate while slumping over his laptop. “Fifteen minutes before the upload finishes.” His voice became even more monotone; he was heading for shock. Florence was shivering too, in suppressed shudders.

“Sophie, you go first, with Parker’s tazer. Hardison at the back with the laptop. Flo, Parker – you’ll have to take Nate.”

“What?” they both whispered; even the thief’s voice sounded dismayed for a second.

“One of you for each upper arm, keeping the pressure and dragging him at the same time. Head first. Move.”

He didn’t wait for them, he went to Hardison. “Take over,” he said. “Choose the path, find the way out. We’re going blind. Lights off.”

Hardison watched him for a few seconds. Then nodded.

Parker was much stronger than she was, the thief took over the pressure; Eliot helped them pull Nate in sitting position first, then hoisted him up to almost standing until they both grabbed a good hold on him. When he let them drag him, she felt like she was dragging a dead body. His feet left a trail in the damp soil, but at least there wasn’t any blood.

“Fifty meters through this corridor, then a sharp turn left. Three phones at the turn,” Hardison’s voice was shaky now, but everything was better that emptiness.

She knew Eliot would go first. When he passed in front of Sophie, he stopped for a second, looking at all three of them; he smiled at them. A terrifying, beautiful smile that flashed through his fierce eyes. Sophie turned the last flashlight off, and only the barely visible bluish shadow from Hardison’s laptop showed them where to step.

He stepped into the darkness before them. They followed more slowly, but she could still see him in front of them, a dark mass a nuance lighter than the tunnels.

She was aware only of glimpses of time, wrapped up in exhaustion and fear. Hardison’s orders and directions, the sounds of fighting, hits and gunshots, Nate’s weight that dragged her to the floor, the smell of blood, mold and ocean. She groped her way in the darkness, keeping her eyes on the shadow in front of them.

She couldn’t cry. The shock drained out all her tears, leaving her eyes dry, aching.

No strength, no courage, she repeated blindly, putting her foot one in front of the other, continuing. She _couldn’t_ cry anymore. But her soul wailed.

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***

 

 


	66. Chapter 66

 

Chapter 66

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***

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“Don’t talk.”

That was the last thing Eliot said to them before they started their way through the tunnels.

Only Hardison’s voice was in his ear. Directions and warnings, clear and precise, nothing more. No babbling, no banter.

He kept himself as close to them as he could. He had to see them in the background if he turned his head, to check how fast they were following him. He had to be close to react if someone jumped them from behind, or burst out of the side passages and openings. Hardison didn’t report any of that, but one unaccounted for killer without a phone might not be the only one.

He had no idea where they were, he couldn’t concentrate on directions, only on staying upright. He tried, but it took too much of him, so he sent everything to hell, closed his eyes, and put his life in Hardison’s hands.

All the rest was a fog of pain and hits.

He kept his eyes closed most of the time.

 _Turn left. Stop and wait. Two on your right side, twenty seconds until you see them. Turn right_.

The attackers' torchlights gave them away in the beginning. After a few gunshots, and yelled questions that carried through the darkness, with no reply, they became cautious. The third group had their lights off, and they _waited_ for him. If Hardison hadn’t located them and warned him, he would've stepped into them, into silent, unmoving shadows.

He was still standing. Yet, staying upright became a very loose concept, his legs no longer willing to support him.

He counted steps. Counted seconds. Counted breaths.

Counted Nate’s heartbeats. He had maybe nine left, if something happened and they let go of the pressure. Every heartbeat, one long spurt of blood. And that was it. Nine seconds.

He forced himself to stop thinking about Nate. About anything. Thinking fed fear, and fear brought doubt – something he couldn’t allow himself now.

 _Stop. Two more running to you – left passage, twenty seconds_.

Hot, white pain was the only reality around him, it kept him awake and alert, it moved his feet in order. Still in the right direction.

He turned left, counted the seconds, waited.

Their torchlight didn’t catch him at first, a dark shadow leaning on the dark wall – they lit the ground beneath their feet. When they did, it was too late.

One bullet grazed his arm – he was so damn slow – and that pushed his anger. Bullets told the others where they were, the exact location. After every bullet, they knew where to gather, closing them in.

He should’ve been able to take them all down _before_ they shot; he once could. But now, he had to get up after every encounter. Pain mixed with despair, as he kneeled, catching his breath in shuddering, shallow gasps, trying to get up.

The first try ended in falling face first into the floor. He groped until he forced his arms to obey and push him back up, but he felt something soft. A jacket. On an unconscious body. The two that he had just knocked out were behind him. This was a third one.

They’d been in this passage before.

“Hardison?” he said, his voice rasped his throat. “We’re going in circles.”

“Exactly. I chose passages that would cut us off and protect our sides, and maneuvered us between the green dots. These two you dealt with were the last in front of us. Get back to us.”

Easier said than done. “No, you come here,” he whispered, finally able to turn around and sit.

“On our way.”

He straightened his back and crossed his arms, a movement that almost ended in a moan – he stifled it, swallowed every sound, and tried to look as if he was just bored waiting for them. Casual. It took fifteen seconds for them to come near him, and his eyelids fluttered. He should’ve gotten up and waited for them on his feet.

“Explain,” he said when they stopped by him.

“No green dots in front of us. All of them are behind us. That’s bad because we are now at the end of a narrow funnel, all of them coming after us… but we’ll go faster without them jumping in our faces, all around us.”

It _was_ better. His concentration wouldn’t be divided between men in front of him, and those behind his back – he would go last, and stop them from closing on their tail.

“Okay, go.”

Florence stopped, he knew she would try to say something.

“Continue, now,” he repeated before she could talk, and Parker moved, forcing her to follow. She just darted him one desperate look before darkness separated them. He didn’t ask if Nate was still alive, but he _did_ check if they left a blood trail. Nothing.

Hardison lingered a few seconds. “We’ll turn the torchlights on now, it will speed us up. Only a few minutes before we reach a part with a metal door and a few slower minutes in the storm drain part, the slippery one. Very soon, the main subway tunnel and Lucille.”

That was supposed to be encouragement? “Just go,” he whispered. He couldn’t raise his voice above that. It wasn’t easy to speak with pain formed in a cry, simmering in his throat, ready to pour out any second. _Damn earbuds_.

Hardison hesitated, but standing still was troublesome for him, too, he had to move to keep the lightheadedness at bay. He staggered after the others, taking the bluish light with him.

Better. Darkness was good. Darkness hid everything.

Now he could blindly crawl himself up the wall, to his feet, without scaring them to death.

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***

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The storm drain had the metal parts under the slippery surface, and it almost cost him his life when his legs didn’t provide the needed support while fighting. Twice. His balance was screwed up beyond repair. Getting up was a task that needed a very complicated set of thought out, will-driven movements, set in the correct order.

“Eliot, you’re too far behind us, you have to catch up.”

 _Seriously? Damn you, Hardison_. He felt the wall with his fingertips, going slowly after them, and the touch of the rough cement _hurt_. He listened to the sounds closing in, footsteps, splashing, the murmur of pissed off voices. All behind them, closing in. Having them all coming from one direction would’ve been great, if that didn’t mean their encounters weren't more frequent – and those damn bullets, telling them all exactly where he was…

He still couldn’t stop them before they fired, and that was driving him nuts. Not to mention that he was dimly aware that he might’ve caught some of those bullets. He couldn’t tell for sure, too numb to feel anything except one giant, pulsating veil of pain. New bullets, knife cuts, bruises, or even possible broken bones, were just too small to feel now, or even notice.

“Eliot?”

 _What now_? He almost growled, but then realized he didn’t answer. “Yeah, coming,” he whispered. His foot slipped and he bit back a moan when his entire weight was on his right hand for a long second, keeping him from falling.

“Good, we need you here, I’m done. We’ll wait for you. Hurry.”

What? Who was done? He shook his head to clear it and gritted his teeth.

He didn’t hear anybody immediately behind him, and Hardison sent no warnings for now, so he pushed himself into a faster pace. _Faster staggering_.

He knew that was a mistake after the first second; the coughing attacked without any warning this time. He pulled the earbud out, convulsions bending him, every heavy heave of his lungs sending blinding pain through his chest.

It lasted longer. Almost two minutes, leaving him on the verge of a blackout. All he could do was curl up on the ground, squeezing his eyes so tight that the tears couldn’t burst out. And breathe.

That blackout saved his life. They were two steps away from him when he noticed them, heard the careful steps. These two had one small, focused torchlight that cast only a weak beam. They passed a few steps away from him, not noticing him at all.

Where was Hardison’s warning? Just then he remembered his earbud, still squeezed in his hand, and put it back in the ear.

“…say something!” Hardison’s voice was too loud, they could almost hear him down the passage. “Their dots just walked over yours. Move, dammit, say something!”

So he moved.

They heard him getting up and quickly turned around, but he smashed their heads into the wall, this time _before_ they pulled their triggers. That move did the same damage to him as it did to them, and he knew he was losing it.

“Coming to you,” he breathed, remembering they were still waiting for him to speak. He reeled, leaning against the wall to hold himself up, waiting for the world to stop spinning around before he dared take another step.

He was a half way there, when he realized he didn’t disarm them. And the mistakes would just continue, no way to stop that downward spiral.

“I have good and bad news,” Hardison continued talking in his ear, and his voice helped him to stay focused. “Good news, they stopped, about two minutes away from us. Bad news, the green dots are clustering at that point. They clearly see that randomly searching and following isn’t healthy… and they know they are behind us. They will all go together.”

He stopped for a second, when all the consequences of Hardison’s words sank in. Bigger groups. He had trouble dealing with two or three of them, the next pair might as well finish him off. He couldn’t fight an entire group of armed people. And they couldn’t escape, too slow; three women with an unconscious man, and one man who couldn’t do anything except slam a laptop into somebody. They had guns, they didn’t have to catch up with them, they could shoot at their backs on sight.

He had no idea what to do, and desperation crept back.

He saw their torchlights when Hardison finished. The last twenty steps were a torturous haze of pain and nausea.

“Turn the torchlights off,” he said. The laptop light would hide him from them, and cover up all blood and his trembling movement.

They stopped at a place that was dimly familiar, broad passage with rotten boxes and pallets. When he saw a huge metal door down the passage, he remembered this place. They had only the last third of a way to go; that part went slightly downwards and it would be easier to carry Nate. They lowered Nate in Sophie’s lap and he went to him first, checking his pulse. _Priorities_. He had to focus on now.

“He’ll be okay if you don’t let the bleeding continue. Strong heartbeats,” he paused, collecting his thoughts that were running in all directions. “He might come together soon… but don’t let him do anything.” Parker was kneeling beside Nate and that was good, she could keep that pressure for days without getting tired. Florence was by her side, ready to step in.

He avoided looking at any of them. Nobody said anything after his words. He drifted away for a few seconds, closing his eyes, until he realized they were waiting for more. And he had nothing more to say. Nothing more to give.

Being so close to the ground was dangerous, so he hoisted himself on his feet and took two steps back, to one of the boxes. Sitting would give some rest.

“I called you to go with them,” he heard Hardison saying. “I’m done, I can’t walk anymore.

That was so absurd that he just looked at him, confused.

“I will slow you down, and you can’t carry me. I’m staying here,” Hardison went on, raising his hand to silence Sophie who was opening her mouth to say something. “Look at that wall – that’s the place where we hid when your tablet pinged and revealed us. I put a piece of box over the hole. Do you see it?”

“Can’t see shit,” he whispered.

“Precisely. So they won’t see it, either. They are searching for a group of people, they won’t check any piece of wood around.” Hardison checked his screen. “We’re lucky, they’re still not moving, we have time. You have enough time to go and use this advantage.”

“We don’t leave anybody behind,” he said automatically. What fucking advantage? When the mobsters started, they’d be here in a minute, and they would just then walk past that door. They were _slow_.

“Well, you’ll have to, because I can’t walk, I’ll faint.”

He would _faint_? He choked on his own blood when something close to laughter escaped his throat, a surge of anger boiling in his head. He really had the guts to say that in front of him? The absurdity of this just made everything more surreal, more muffled. He slowly raised his hands and wrapped them around his chest, to stop shaking.

“I feel dizzy,” Hardison explained slowly, a slight tone of whining in his voice. “I’m sensitive, and not used to blood loss. You’ll manage without me.”

He stared at him, not believing, then slowly got up. “You spoiled…” the voice betrayed him. He was ready to hide in a hole and leave the girls to continue alone, because he was too weak to walk? He had to repeat that in his head to believe it, and a mad rage colored everything red. He was one step away from him before he noticed it, his fist ready to strike, when he saw his eyes, lit by the screen.

No weakness, no fear, just a cold calculation in them.

He stopped.

Hardison was provoking him, poking at him, pushing his buttons to make him so pissed off that he would leave him there, willingly. Hardison knew he wouldn’t leave him under any circumstances… except the one he tried to push him into.

Hardison saw a change in his eyes, obviously, because he sighed and darted a quick glance to the girls, before looking at him again. _Work with me_ , the message was clear.

Fuck, what _else_ was coming their way? This shit wasn’t enough?

“You can’t delay your _fainting_ for ten more minutes?” he asked neutrally.

“No, I think I’ll collapse the moment I got up, _here_.” Hardison’s quiet whisper sounded tensed. “I have to use this cover, I’ll be safe. Remember what happened here when we fought our way up?”

What happened? The stupid ping on his tablet almost killed them, that's what happened, drew the mobsters back to them. That wasn’t informative, it told him nothing, it was…

A ping. The sign that they had a signal again, when they climbed up a little. He turned around, to the door that was open just enough so two of them could pass, too heavy for them to move any further. And to the corridor behind it, covered by darkness and invisible. Where there wasn’t any signal, their phones and tablet were dead.

If Hardison moved just ten more steps, his uploading would be stopped, disconnected, everything would go to hell. Timing was crucial, they had to finish Don Lazzara _now_. He couldn’t just stop and continue later.

He slowly turned back to him, meeting his eyes, letting him know that he knew. The damn idiot _lied_. Lied to him. He would stay behind, pretending he couldn’t walk, just to finish this, until it would be too late to escape… “You fuck-” he bit back the rest of it, all the helpless anger that almost choked him. “You-you…” _No, stop, no time for bitching_. “You can’t leave it here, working on its own?”

“It won’t hack into the broadcasting frequency by itself.”

“What’s going on?” Sophie whispered.

He tried to clear all the frantic thoughts running through his head. “He’s right,” he said. “He… I can’t carry him, nor can you. We have to take care of Nate. You have to do it, I…” he stopped. No, there wasn’t any other way. If that upload stopped, they had _nothing_. They would never be safe. Even if the girls left this tunnel alive, killers would be waiting for them in the apartment to finish the job. Don Lazzara had to be stopped, and _here_ was the place to do it. Only here.

He turned to Sophie again. No more lies, no more hiding, they had to know the situation. “I’m staying with him. He needs time for the upload, there’s no signal down the passage. Take them to Mass Gen. Nate’s life depends on it, only think about that.”

Her eyes swiveled from him to Hardison, then looked behind their backs, down the way they came, as if expecting to see killers advancing. He knew there was no point in lying to her even if he tried. She was aware of what staying here meant.

“You can’t-” she tried, but stopped.

“You are slow, you’ll be overtaken as soon as they start. You need a few minutes to make some distance,” he stopped, watching her, then added, more gently, “You’ll have them. No other way, Soph.”

She reached to her riot-suit belt and took the cop’s gun. “If you both don’t come out of this alive, I’ll kill you myself,” she whispered. “Use this. _I want you alive_. No matter what you have to do.”

“Go now,” he breathed. Just once, he dared meet Florence’s eyes; she was kneeling beside Nate and Parker. Her eyes were two huge dark spots in a completely white face. He couldn’t see her clearly.

He took a step aside when they lifted Nate and took a few steps to the door.

“Parker, get them safely out,” he said to the thief; she nodded, her eyes burning with anger. That was good. She would keep the pace and deal with everything in their way. He could trust her to get them out of this, just as he trusted Sophie to take over when they reached people.

And Florence… she couldn’t do anything, her hands busy with Nate, but her eyes never left him. He felt that look like a razor in his heart, a new pain to deal with.

She looked away only when they reached the door, when they had to maneuver themselves through the slit.

“You promised,” he heard her through the earbud; her first words after everything went to hell.

He watched her disappearing with them in the darkness. “I lied,” he whispered then, and took his earbud out.

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***

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When the sound of their steps stopped echoing around them, he pulled out his phone, going after them to the door. He had to see how long before his phone lost the signal, and he prayed for every step. Just a few steps, now, was the border between life and death.

He held his breath while passing through the door – but it still worked. _C’mon, just a few more steps_ … the phone finally lost connection about five meters _after_ the door and he let out one relieved breath, the smallest he could spare. He would grin if he remembered how. But the rekindled hope gave him speed when he called the hacker. “Hardison, come through the door, hurry. If you’re on this side, the door will give us more time, I’ll close it.”

“Signal?” He heard Hardison scrambling to his feet.

“Died here where I’m standing.” He waited until Hardison came through the opening, carefully checking the bars on his display. Just in case, the hacker stopped one meter away from him.

“You won’t be able to close it yourself, we barely opened it before,” Hardison said turning around.

Oh yes, he would. For this, he would close it. He let all the adrenaline that was fueling him collect into one place, and grinned, passing by him through the door, back into the upper part.

“Where the hell are you going?” Hardison whispered.

“Stay there,” he breathed. With Hardison’s torchlighton the other side, this part was almost completely dark now, just a glimpse of light came through the slit.

He put both of his hands on the door. He didn’t take any deep breaths for this, he didn’t need it… all of him, accumulated, was in this moment, in this point in time, ready for one final stand. And most of all, hope pushed him.

The door let out one rusty, ragged sound, dragged on the concrete floor that crumbled when the mass slid over it – and clicked, sitting back in the metal rim.

“Eliot, no!! Open it!! Open the door, you sonof-”

He had pulled the earbud out, and Hardison’s voice came through the door muffled, not shrieking clear in his ear. He turned the big, old key, and pushed it into the lock, blocking any burgling attempts.

That final effort almost finished him; he fell on his knees, resting his forehead on the door, closing his eyes. Buzzing covered Hardison’s yelling, distorting the words into a deep, loud groan.

“I’m sorry,” he breathed into the door.

The groan stopped. He heard him.

“I don’t think I would make it to Lucille, anyway.”

“You’re not alone. Open the door, Eliot!”

“No. Tactically, this is the only right thing to do,” he said. “The door would keep them five, maybe ten minutes. Barely enough for you. With this… I can keep them busy… maybe two seconds, maybe two minutes, maybe more… and only after that, will they start on door. Gives us more time.”

“You can’t know that!” The naked anguish in Hardison’s voice shot through his heart. “Open the door! Two minutes, for your life, isn’t worth it!”

Two lives. If he stayed with him on the other side, and tried to stop them when they opened the door, Hardison would be dead too. How couldn’t he see that this was the only logical thing to do? Even Nate wouldn’t have anything to say about this. He would understand. That thought brought another one and he flinched. “Are they listening to us?”

“No, I cut them off. Eliot, please-”

“No. Give me the mobsters' positions. Are they moving?”

“Still grouping, haven’t started yet. You have a few more minutes before they reach you. Look, I’m monitoring this damn upload, and its’ wavering, it could be finished sooner than we thought. You can-”

“Good,” he cut him off. “Now just… don’t talk.” He pushed himself off the door and sat on his heels, still looking at the rusty metal. _Don’t talk_ wasn’t the last words he wanted to say to him. But they perfectly summed up their entire history.

“I’ll move away from the door now,” he said quietly. “No more talking, I need silence.”

“Just stay alive. We’ll come and get you as soon-”

“No, you won’t. As soon as you’re done, you’ll go after them and finish this damn thing, for good. You have to be far away when they come through the door, ya hear me?” He got up. Sophie’s gun was cold in his hand; he put it in his pocket. He felt until he found the key hole, then took one step back, slamming the key with his foot, breaking it in the lock. They would have to tear the door apart to come through.

“And, Hardison…” he hesitated, the lump in his throat almost stopping his words. “Keep an eye on her… later. For me.”

“Always,” Hardison whispered finally.

That was it. He turned around and went back into the black passage.

Not far away, there was no point in walking now. Nor the strength to perform it. Just as far as he couldn’t hear Hardison anymore. Couldn’t feel his rage and pain.

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***

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“This _isn’t_ good.”

Those were the first words spoken in the endless minutes while they walked through the passages, and Florence flinched when she heard Sophie’s voice. All this time she was soaked in silence, not able to decide if no sounds behind them was a good or bad thing. _As if that mattered_ , added a bitter voice in her head. She forgot to pay attention to the sounds in front of them – just now she became aware of a constant, slowly growing noise.

She turned around to see where they were. Not far from the main subway tunnel, judging by the wider passages and arched walls. They were in front of one of the larger openings, an open space that served as an intersection. Florence knew that Sophie had the plans in her phone, and that she knew which one of the corridors that led in every direction they should take.

Sophie put her arm before them and stopped them; Sophie who had set the crazy pace that they barely followed. But no one had said a word. The sooner they got to safety, and Nate into the hands of professionals, the sooner they could do something for Eliot and Hardison. No one said that they might already be dead.

“Put him down,” Sophie said, going a few steps in front of them, lighting their path.

And both her and Parker saw where they were; at the spot where Nate sent her phone into water that crossed their trail. Only this time, there was no trail anymore. Swirling black water rushed across the intersection, almost as large as a hall. The last time they took a turn and avoided it – now, water was spreading all over the place, even entering some of the passages on the other side.

If she wasn’t so numb-brained, she would've noticed the smell of the ocean growing stronger – now, when she saw water, that scent hit her directly in the face. The tide and flood had swallowed their marker who knew how long ago.

“It’s fast but I don’t think it’s too deep,” Sophie said. “I’ll go to the other side and look for best way to carry him over-” Her words were cut off when she stepped into the water. Only one step, the water not much over her knees, but its force battered her feet out from under her. She sat, the water rolled her over, and she was almost two meters away when Florence managed to reach for her and grabbed her jacket. She pulled her out.

“Maybe if we all go together, we would be stable,” she said. “It’s not even up your waist.”

“Not with him,” Sophie whispered. “Water would wrest him out of our hands – you won’t be able to keep the pressure and hold him.”

“We can wake him up,” Parker quickly said. “Eliot said that he could come together soon. If he's able to stand on his own…”

“Pressure, Parker,” Sophie’s voice sounded desperate for a moment. “We still have to-”

“Okay, so we have to find a way to stop that bleeding. And then wake him up. He would know what to do.”

Now Florence read that tone in Parker’s voice, she didn’t have to look at her face. Nate would solve everything. Nate would bring Hardison and Eliot back to them, safe.

She swallowed a lump in her throat and smiled at the thief.

“Yes, Parker… we shall think of something,” Sophie said softly with a ghost of a smile.

But when Florence looked up at her – to warm herself in that smile, to steal a little hope – she wanted to scream, and never stop. The grifter’s eyes were dead.

.

.

.

***

.

It was great to finally close his tired eyes. Adrenaline was still swirling its deadly dance through his veins, there was no chance he would drift away now.

He listened to the outermost silence possible. Only one sound shattered it, one drop every few seconds. A crystal clear _plink_ , when the drop hit the small puddle on the ground. Pitch dark made all his senses more awake; he felt every grain of dirt with his right fingers, laid by his side. The stones in the wall were cold, spreading the familiar chill through his bones.

He remembered that coldness, he knew what was coming. Even if he didn’t jam the door, if they continued normally, he wouldn’t be able to follow, to go with them all the way up to Lucille. And they would never leave him, they would be further slowed down by one more burden. This was best for everybody.

Every second was a gift. But his eyelids were heavier with each passing second.

He knew why they got this short intermezzo. He didn’t tell Hardison that the mobsters grouping probably meant they were waiting for more men; that detail was irrelevant right now.

He had twelve bullets in the gun. More than enough.

Damn, he was hoping he wouldn’t die killing… but somehow, it felt right. Killed like a rat in the sewer, that was the right end for a man like him. His life was, anyway, just borrowed. These last days were given to him to make things right before he died. Yet, it was the strange cruelty of fate that put Florence in his path now.

She made him feel alive. No, worse than that. She made him _want_ to live, now of all times, when he knew, felt, that everything was returning him into That Night. To the end.

He might’ve lied when he had promised that he would return to her wherever he was, whatever happened… but it didn’t mean he wouldn’t try. He never gave up, not ever in his life. Yet, he knew all the odds. He wasn’t a fool.

He went through his pockets, collecting all the badges and IDs he had with him. His tablet was cracked, forgotten at his belt, but it was still deadly if it got into the wrong hands. He put it on the ground, with the IDs on top of it, and reached for his phone in the last pocket. His fingers went through something squishy, and he pulled out the phone glued with marzipan. He had forgotten Parker’s creations, melted into one big bulge.

The scent of almonds returned him to the sofa, to her lips under his, and that damn avocado oil and shea butter conditioner; a quick burst of regret went through him before he could stop it. Damn, she was an unexpected gift, a blessing and a torture, given to him only to see what he could’ve had if he hasn’t chosen this life.

He slowly raised his hands and put them on his knees. He couldn’t see them, he didn’t have to. His fingers were trembling. It was harder, every passing second, to keep the fear and pain under control. To work with them. To use them. The adrenaline would soon be all spent, and the pain and fear would be the only things that would make him move.

Nobody understood that killing was so much easier than keeping opponents alive. Until now, he was spending more time and energy calculating force, angle, anatomy and control, than on actual hitting. Now, it would be only hit and move on. Lethal blows were clean and easy. He needed the Killer now, a mindless killing machine that would buy them time – only that creature could save them now. One last time.

He dialed a number.

“Hardison. Destroy my tablet and phone, in ten seconds.”

He cut the line before Hardison could answer, and put the phone on the small pile on the ground. A flash of light, burning and a small detonation, and that was it.

He kept the earbud, in his shirt pocket; there’d be enough time to crush it if needed. For now, he had to have some sort of communication with the team – even the possibility of Nate’s post-mortem nagging was annoying and worthy of avoiding it in advance. This _wasn’t_ similar to the warehouse. Even Nate would see the difference, and understand why there wasn’t any other choice.

A sound down the passage. Rustle of footsteps.

Four quiet knocks on the metal door on the other side.

Hardison knew where he was, he had his dot on his screen, knew he would hear the warning.

A scout patrol, four men, sent in front to locate them, before the others started after them.

A new flicker of hope stirred him and he slowly got up. This meant that they would wait more, waiting for these four to return or call them to come. If he managed to take care of them silently, without damn gunshots, that would prolong everything.

Only a few minutes had passed since he closed the door, they needed more. Much more.

They probably heard the detonation, because they came stalking, slowly, spread out as much as they could. This part of the passage was broad and it provided enough room for maneuvering; they used it. Only one had a flashlight, but all four of them had guns ready.

He stood by the wall, unnoticed in the shadows. He had nine meters to reach them, and with four guns, the chances that he would finish this silently were rapidly falling. Hell, the chances of finishing them at all were catching up as well.

He bent and picked up a stone, big enough to seriously hurt or kill if thrown with enough force. Sophie’s gun could wait for more opponents.

He smashed the torchlight that one of them carried; according to the scream, a few fingers went as well. In the moment when complete darkness fell on the passage, all the four of them started shooting, spraying bullets all around him.

So much for the silence.

Running or walking made no difference now, which was a good thing, because he couldn’t sprint. His steps were wavering, slow movements, while the floor danced beneath him. He simply walked to them when they emptied their magazines. The sounds of heavy, frightened breathing were all that he needed to know where they were.

The chill spread when he moved, slowing him down from inside.

He took down one of them. Stopped to cough. Defended against all three of them coming at him at the same time. Took down the second. Ended up sprawled on the ground. Got up. Finished the third. Finished the fourth. Coughed again. Took their guns, their spare magazines. Fell. Crawled away to the wall.

Fuck, this _was_ the end.

It took one minute before he could hoist himself on his knees, and be sure he would stay there. The urge to hurry was of no avail now. He couldn’t move faster.

The only thing he could do was to breathe until all of the rest came. They would come with more flashlights, no shadows would hide him.

He crawled into the hole in the wall that Hardison had chosen for his hiding place. That would give him a few more seconds. He counted time, slow water drops every nine seconds, because he couldn’t hear or feel his own heartbeat. The chill and numbness eased the pain, slowed everything. He clung to the drops to keep himself aware of time passing, the only concrete thing in the pitch black with no other sounds.

He welcomed their hesitance, every second was putting more distance between them and the team; even Hardison might already be on his way to Lucille – but he also wanted them to hurry the fuck up. He planned to be at least a little bit alive before they showed up, able to do something.

He spread the guns on the ground, his insensitive bloodied fingers fumbling to change the magazines.

Just when he thought that he could spare four bullets for these four, did he become aware that all four attackers were left alive. He'd only knocked them out, didn’t kill them. He _had_ decided to let the killer out, to act instinctively, without calculations…

And he did. Keeping opponents alive _became_ his instinct, engraved in his nerves and bones.

He left the guns and stared blindly into the dark.

 _Changeable and un-changeable killers_. Why the hell had he listened to her in the first place, why did he let her mess up his mind? He knew what he was. She was an idealistic, stupid writer, bound to happy ends. _Redemption, my ass_. There was no such a thing in his world. A sudden flash of anger reminded him he was losing it; he couldn’t stop shivering, and he clutched his chest, waiting for the pain to erase all that shit from his mind.

He vaguely remembered the time when killing somebody was a dreadful thing that happened only in the movies, when life was full of promises. He remembered that time existed… but now, for a few seconds, he _felt_ it. It left him breathless, frozen in surprise… that stirring of something old, long, long forgotten, something he thought was way beyond his reach now.

He liked the guy he once had been, but he said his farewell a long time ago; he lost all hope he would ever find him again, though he sometimes caught a glimpse of him in the mirror. Not enough, but he kept trying.

His own death was mocking him, making him _feel_. Letting him feel hope, showing him that everything wasn't hopeless, that his striving might have results. Yes, now was definitely the best time to think about how he might even defeat the monster, one day. To think that the one human part of him was still alive, deep, deep inside.

Or it was just his oxygen-deprived brain, playing games with him, torturing him as usual.

What if…

No, he stopped every thought that instant. _What ifs_ were useless, they made his mind writhe in craving. That future wasn’t for him. He had none.

And as if confirming his thoughts, the first footsteps came from down the corridor.

They were here.

He had enough bullets to kill a small army, to keep them at bay long enough for the team to be safe.

He didn’t _want_ to kill them. And he had no choice but to kill as many of them as he could before they finished him off.

No escape for him. He took one deep breath, slowly, clutching the guns. He tried to decipher what he felt, but his head was a mess occupied with that painful, cruel hope that warmed his heart for a moment, just to show him what he was about to lose. Too late for everything now, no second chances.

He heard them at the end of the passage, their whispers coming to him clearly. He moved the wood guarding his hole and stood up, not hiding anymore. The guns were heavy in his hands.

And then, finally, he managed to name that weight on his heart, those claws that squeezed. And he smiled. _So simple_. Regret.

The countdown fell to zero.

.

.

.

***

.

“Nate… Nate… Nate… Nate…”

Florence resisted the need to put her hands over her ears; Sophie’s gentle voice and light touches on his face drove her insane in less than five seconds, and the grifter wasn’t showing any signs of stopping.

“Nate… Nate… Nate…”

Parker moved in front her, in one frustrated jerk. She grabbed Sophie by her shoulders and moved her away from Nate.

“Parker, what-” Sophie tried to stop her, but she was too late.

“Don’t have time for this,” the thief muttered and pulled the unconscious man one step to the side, to the end of the dry ground. Florence gasped when she pushed his head underwater. She jumped to help her, grabbing his wrapped arm to keep it out of the water, praying that the duct tape would hold. They wrapped his entire arm, from shoulder to wrist. It took an eternity, now when every second was precious. They cut off his sleeves, still keeping the pressure. They made a big, multilayered square patch first, and applied that to the hole still spurting blood, the most dangerous point. Parker kept the pressure, and the two of them stood ready to push the duct tape cover in less than a second. Parker lifted her hands, they put it on, Parker pressed again, and they started wrapping the dry parts of it first, wiping away the blood and continuing until he had a few solid layers over the wound, and the entire arm wrapped to secure all that. The duct tape held – no other bandage would.

His fingers weren’t darker, so they probably didn’t entirely cut off his circulation; anyway, this was just a panic improvisation that should give them a few more minutes, and help them get him through the flood.

She was sure he wouldn’t react to the water, but he coughed and opened his eyes.

Sophie gasped again and scrambled to them, wrapping her arms around him, uttering unintelligible words.

“Don’t have time for that either,” Parker waved her hand in front of his eyes. They were open, yes, but blurry and unfocused. “Nate! You have to get up!”

“Wh’t the hell happened?” he whispered, blinking. That changed Sophie’s course, she explained in a few short sentences everything that happened after he fell. _Upload, no signal, staying behind_ … it was awful how two precious lives could be condemned with such a logical and cold explanation.

Florence stared at him; every sentence changed his eyes, as his mind followed and put all that into sequence. By the time Sophie finished, the blurriness was gone.

He blinked a few times and slowly sat. She opened her mouth to tell him to sit – she was sure that lying down helped more than the water, when the blood returned to his head – but she said nothing. They woke him to get him up. They _really_ didn’t have time for a slow recovery.

“You’ll have to walk,” Sophie pointed to the flood. “We have to get you to Mass Gen, this won’t hold very long. Can you stand?”

He looked at the water and passages on the other side.

“How long?”

“S-six minutes since we left them,” Florence whispered.

Nate slowly hoisted himself on his feet, using Sophie as a support. “Upload isn’t finished yet. Any contact with them?”

“They cut us off.”

“No phones. Not wise now,” he muttered, swaying. Florence never saw someone so pale, not even Eliot. He was _white_. “Six minutes while carrying me – you really carried me here?” He shook his head and concentrated. Sophie had to stop his stumbling. “Those six will be three now.”

“We have more than three minutes to Lucille, Nate,” Sophie turned him around to face the water; tears were pouring down her face. “Please, let’s try-”

“You’re kidding, right?” He looked at his wrapped up arm and checked it. “This holds. We don’t have to get to Mass Gen anymore. We’re not leaving them.”

His short sentences sounded retarded; he was blinking, clearly on the verge of passing out. No, he wasn’t good. But Florence’s heart leaped in hope for a moment, sharing Parker’s trust in him. He would know what to do. She forced her mind, with effort, to stop asking what the hell they could do even if they got there in time. Die with them?

“A phone,” he whispered. Sophie put a phone in his good hand and he dialed a number. “Where’s the egg?” he asked.

“In my backpack,” Florence turned around to show him Parker’s things on her back.

He nodded. “Patrick,” he said. “Send an ambulance to the front of 695 Washington Street, tell them to go into the old subway tunnels immediately.” He started walking as he talked, going back without checking if they were following him. Florence glanced at Sophie’s face, fear mixed with a relieved smile and a huge amount of exasperation. The grifter shook her head finally and went after him, pointing her torchlight at the ground below his feet. “Yes, the bomb is with us, no need to evacuate anything. Talk to you later, have to go.”

He hurried, Florence had trouble catching up with him. They would need much less than three minutes to return, unless he dropped dead after ten more steps.

“Don Lazzara,” she heard him again, his voice growing stronger. She'd never heard that metallic note before. “I’m free. Your man is dead. And I’m coming to get you.”

Silence. He didn’t slow down, listening to the other side of the line. She held her breath, waiting, then quickly started to pant again, breathless from the fast pace. “Because you’re an amateur, that’s why,” Nate’s voice was acid, full of despise. “You fell on the decoy like a fool, sent all your men into the chase through the tunnels… and you left only three men with you? You are … naked. In exactly two minutes, you’ll hear an explosion. Just one move of my finger, and all your men in the tunnels – dead. See you soon.”

He put the phone in his pocket and stopped for a second, turning to them. The light flickered across his face, the ghostly pallor even stronger now when his eyes were so murderous.

“You-you won’t kill-” Florence stuttered.

He blinked slowly, concentrating on her question. “He doesn’t know that.” Then he looked at the thief, the same slow turn. “Parker…” he said. “How many?”

“Only four,” the thief darted an impish smile.

“Good,” he turned around and continued. Florence hastened her steps. Only four of what?

She got it after three steps.

“I’m carrying four hand grenades on my back?!” her voice rose. “Along with a bottle of viruses, through gunfire? Are you completely insane?”

“Yep,” the thief passed by her, still grinning.

“Why didn’t you leave them with Eliot?”

“He wouldn’t take them,” her grin faded a little.

No, he probably wouldn’t. She hastened her steps, Nate setting a pace impossible for his condition, and the heavy burden on her soul lifted a little. They were going back for them, Nate _would_ get them out.

They went only ten more steps when the deafening sound of gunshots echoed through the tunnels. And in that moment, all her hope died.

.

.

.

***

.

The gunshots of the fallen four scouts warned the bigger group, they came ready, just as he knew they would. He watched the dark shapes and rays of light, blurred and melted into a flickering mess.

He had to stall. Not let them come too close, his part of the passage had to stay dark.

He fired a few bullets over their heads, without thinking about it, then cursed himself and his stupidity. Those five bullets, if he shot at them, might have meant five less attackers.

Their retribution was quick and deadly, and he took a few steps back under the rain of bullets. The hole provided half a cover even if he just leaned back into it a little.

He listened to the bullets plowing the wall near his face, completely numb. No pain anymore, no fear… he was empty like a lifeless shell. The only solid thing that he felt were the two guns in his hands. This time, he thought absentmindedly, the gunpowder smell didn’t bring any Estrella flashbacks. Not even once since this PVA shit started, not even in the tunnels. _Interesting_.

But one thing he could remember, and the memory brought the shivering back. The previous night’s nightmare, when he killed an endless line of enemies through a corridor just like this one, with the team and Florence at the end. All dead, killed by his hand, because he couldn’t stop, didn’t _want_ to stop killing.

Sophie gave him a gun, to save himself and Hardison… but Hardison was beyond their reach now, he would have enough time to escape. He, on the other hand, couldn’t be saved. He would die here. Did he really want the team to find him among who knew how many dead people, after all he had done to fucking _stop_?

He knew what Sophie would tell him, what any of them would think… but this was his moment, his decision. He could choose the way to die.

He didn’t _want_ to kill those men.

That simple truth brought a smile on his lips; he felt it with surprise. The act of smiling seemed to be just a memory now.

The gunshots subsided… they were lying around, peering behind the walls, taking every cover they could find… a cautious silence fell on the battlefield.

Now he knew what last gift he could give to the team. _No_ dead bodies around him. Just that. And they would know what path he had chosen for this final step. No regrets. No guilt.

He leaned back a little more, using the wall for support. He couldn’t just stop shooting and let them kill him. They would rush to the door and open it too soon. His count of the time was messed up – this felt like eternity, one entire lifetime, and he couldn’t tell how many minutes Hardison had to escape. If he started retreat at all. Maybe that damn upload still wasn’t finished.

Maybe, just maybe, there was a chance for him to survive this. At least, not to get killed by their bullets – he couldn’t predict when this bleeding would kill him.

He had to find some way to keep them here, without killing them, keep them occupied.

All good ideas were so damn simple. _Thank you, Parker_. She saved his life That Night, when she left the duct tape stripes under his bed. Now, if his luck held, she would save Hardison’s. Maybe even his, again… with the marzipan balls.

His smile, this time, was real, as the idea formed into a concrete set of doings.

“Your four men are dead,” he said, not raising his voice. The sound spread perfectly. “I have their guns and bullets, and I have cover.”

Instead of an intelligible answer, they strew bullets in the direction of his voice. The bullets scattered all around, some of them flying very close.

He waited until this round died out, not returning fire. He counted to fifteen when silence fell. A quarter of a minute. He planned to gather as many of them as he could.

“As I said,” he whispered when he judged that they would get up to check if he was dead. “I have a very good cover. You’re stuck.”

“You’re dead,” one voice answered. Stupid shit, but, really, what could they tell him? Let us pass? Come to us? Surrender? They were sent to kill, all parties knew that, there wasn’t any negotiating possible.

But there was grifting. “Yes, I am, that’s why I’m left here. They couldn’t carry me. Nothing to lose, ya’ know?”

“Enough. Kill him.” The same voice gave the order. Bullets again. This time he went back into the hole as deep as he could. The barrage fire lasted much longer this time, and they took a few steps closer.

Good thing they couldn’t use the torchlights, counting on that he would shoot directly at the ones who were carrying them; only the muzzle flashes showed him the surroundings. His hole was invisible in the dancing lights and shadows.

“That’s it, come closer,” he grinned, letting that grin be felt in his voice. “I forgot to tell you that you are dead too. All of you.”

“C’mon, die already,” the voice said. “You really think you can shoot all of us?”

Instead of an answer, he threw one gun into the middle of the passage, between them. He heard muttered words, the voice was directing one of them how to point a torchlight at it without ruining his cover. He waited until one shaky beam of light touched the gun, then threw another one. He stopped a second after he dismissed of all four of the confiscated guns, paused, then threw his gun, too.

“You have another one. You think we’re stupid?”

“I don’t. Do you know what a dead man’s switch is, gentlemen?” He waited until his words sank in, then slowly got out of the cover. “I would be very careful with shooting, if I were you. The entire passage is ready to be detonated. I suggest you start running.”

“Bullshit. You’re bluffing.”

He took a few steps towards them, slowly, praying that he wouldn’t just stumble and die. _Not yet_. “Shoot then, if you think I lie.” He reached the lit part and slowly fell to his knees. The light flickered over him, showing them the blood on his mouth and face. “Two bullets… in the chest. I’m dying,” he whispered, then coughed, once for show. Sophie would be proud, he thought. Dramatic effects in a good death scene… and he tried to ignore the wave of weakness that rushed over him, freezing him inside.

He held his right hand slightly raised, as if he held a real switch. They wouldn’t dare to shoot now.

“I have nothing to lose,” he breathed. “The moment I stop holding the switch, you’re dead too.” He slowly reached into his pocket and took a bulge of marzipan, then rolled it to the first cover. One hand reached and grabbed it.

“It’s C4!” a new, high-pitched voice uttered.

Everybody knew that C4 explosive smelled like almonds, except the ones who _knew_. He wondered if Florence knew that it had no smell, and if she would now recite an entire cliché story about people who learn facts from the movies, not bothering to check them. Damn, he so desperately wanted to hear her babbling again; that was a sound he would listen to for the rest of his life.

 _You promised_.

 _I lied_.

Well, he was working on staying alive, that should’ve counted, right?

“I still don’t think that-” a slow, steady voice; he felt the mind behind it thinking at a frantic pace – but before he could say something and stop that dangerous thinking, somebody’s phone vibrated.

A commotion went through them; this could kill them any other time. And it would. He could locate the man via that sound with a five inch mistake.

“Yes?” a low, cautious whisper. On the other side of the line was clearly somebody whose calls weren’t rejected or put on hold, not even in this deadly shit.

He allowed himself to blink once. Then he had to take a deep, deep breath to gather enough strength to open his eyes again. Holding his hand level became an impossible task, so he slowly lowered it on his knee. This kneeling shit, he just now realized, was a dead end. No getting up, he couldn’t move. But he'd collected enough quarter minutes, lined them up… and he was still doing it.

“Fuck, no! He isn’t bluffing! Get out of here!”

He stared at the shadows and shapes of the men who were there to kill them, and he wondered if they knew he was trying to _save_ their lives. He could’ve killed them all. Easy. Very fast. _Fucking irony_.

“What happened?” the higher voice asked in a whisper.

His mind reeled, lost focus, shapes disappeared; he saw he was falling face first only when his right hand stopped it. A gasp went through the men, so he raised his left one a little, to show them he still held the switch.

“Don Lazzara just called, said we are all dead. Explosives. Clear out!”

His thoughts shattered, just like the lights all around, and the sudden sounds which he couldn’t recognize. He glued his eyes on the one flashlight a few meters in front of him, left on the ground. It rolled.

It was fascinating. The rolling slowed and stopped. When he managed to tear his eyes away from it – hours later - and look around, they were gone.

.

.

.

***

.

It took some time before he could decide that this was over. No men attacking the door. No men after the team. They were – all, he hoped – in Mass Gen by now, safe and sound, taken care of, working on finishing Don Lazzara. And the most important… he didn’t kill anybody.

He grinned, watching Sophie’s gun in front of him, and all the other guns. _They would know_. Nate would receive the message. Changeable, un-changeable, upgraded, downgraded… all of that was just words with no meaning. He needed just this feeling, this… lightness… of his mind, cleared and freed, to know what he had done.

And now… time to do something… productive. Like saving his life.

 _Yeah, right_.

The darkness whirled in slow circles around him, he couldn’t see the flashlight anymore. Just when he gasped for air, did he realize he was lying on his back now, he'd just toppled over.

He was too tired to move, and too frozen to feel anything – but if he wanted to hear her babbling, and their nagging, ever again, he had to work on it. _Damn_.

The first step. He crawled to the nearest wall to keep himself upright.

The second step… well, he’ll work on figuring it out.

His earbud was in his shirt pocket, he remembered. He could ask them if they were safe. If only he could lift his hand to reach it. If only he could stop these shocky shudders that stopped every move. If only…

The wall behind his back thundered, and the vibration went through his chest, shattering his thoughts again. _What the hell_ …? He _didn’t_ have a dead man’s switch, his marzipan couldn’t explode. He pondered on that possibility for a few moments, just in case. Nah…

The darkness was suddenly full of movement, sounds, the air around him whirled. He tried to open his eyes. Nothing happened. But the faint scent of avocado oil and shea butter surrounded him, and he knew she was there. Later, he would think about how, why, and what now… for now, he would just stay in the moment. He could do that, he had enough strength to do nothing.

“Open your eyes, Eliot, look at me!”

 _Nope, not gonna happen_. It was tiring. He already knew what she looked like. He almost laughed at that, inwardly – he had forgotten what a mess blood loss could make of the though process.

Her hands were on his face, in his hair, quick desperate moves. Yet so gentle. He wanted to tell her that everything would be alright now – and he was pretty sure he really said that – but her voice was filled with tears. “…not responding, Nate, I can’t see if he’s still breathing…”

Of course he was breathing. Of course he was…. Wait, what the hell was Nate doing here? They were gonna have a lot of explaining to do, damn idiots, never stayed where he left them…

He concentrated on opening his eyes, to glare at them all, and only darkness flashed in front of him. Her voice grew distant and deeper. Slower. She stopped her hands, he felt no movements anymore… just her arms around him, holding him tight.

He thought about telling her she was not helping his breathing by squeezing all the air out of him. He gave up. He would end up laughing, and it could scare her. He was done with scaring her. He planned to make her smile and laugh from now on. She deserved it, after all this shit they put her through.

“…do something…”

He tried to tell her to stop crying. Tried to say he was okay – that damn false promise was bothering him immensely – tried to say every damn thing he wanted her to know… and her curls on his face distracted him. Yep, _that_ was why he wasn’t able to speak. Nothing more, no other reasons. She was a dazzling distraction from the beginning, when she entered his life, it was logical she would continue to do that. The cutest menace possible. And she even smiled at him the way he thought she never would. He kept that smile in front of his eyes – a brilliance radiating from her eyes, the pure happiness – but he couldn’t hold it long enough, darkness dulled her colors.

He fought the sinking. Fought to keep this fragile thread with reality. Fought to breathe.

“...we’re too late…”

 _No, you ain’t_.

You were here just in time, darlin’.

.

 

***

 

 

 

 


	67. Chapter 67

 

 

 

Chapter 67

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***

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They took him away. The paramedics wrested him from her arms, and Florence was pushed away, left behind. Nobody told her anything, and she didn’t understand their quick, frenetic exchanges. Everything screamed emergency. She didn’t know if he was even alive or not.

Trotting behind the stretcher cleared her panic a little, and she forced herself to think. It seemed only she noticed that the rescue team – for a construction worker caught in a cave-in – had a few police officers. One of them, a young black man, carried her over the flood, the other one helping Sophie. Parker was helping the paramedics. A lot of paramedics. Too many. Both Nate and Hardison were on stretchers too, and she remembered that Nate had said they would be two PVA ceremony guests, mugged and robbed. How he would explain them having been so deep in the tunnels?

Hardison chased everybody away as soon as they emerged into the soft rain, and continued walking.

She remembered, surprisingly, Hardison’s sigh of relief when he climbed into Lucille and met with his computers again. And Sophie’s, too, when she changed from the wet riot gear into light trousers and a blouse. Everything else was too quick and confusing.

Parker drove. In twenty seconds, they’d left behind two ambulance vans that flew screaming their blue and red lights into the night.

Sophie stared blindly in front of her. Hardison typed.

And in exactly four minutes, they were in the Mass Gen ER.

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***

.

“Hey! I just saw you on TV…”

She turned around and growled at a nurse who was pointing at her, showing her the side of her face that had a bruise from Knudsen’s knuckles, and a few drops of blood from a wall scrape.

“Oh, sorry, my mistake.” The woman continued walking.

She rested her eyes on the pale green walls and too-bright orange furniture, just to erase the stretchers that flew beside her just a minute ago. They were working something on him; one paramedic holding some oxygen thingy on his face, the other an infusion bag, the third blocking her view as they passed, all three of them talking into their communication set at a fast pace. A young doctor was waiting for them – she read his name on the ID. Dr. DeBoer. She thought his surgeon was Dr. Sciortino. Before any of them could ask or do anything, the huge double doors opened and swallowed them all.

Where was Betsy? She expected her to be here, waiting, she _hoped_ she would be here; her presence would mean that everything would be fine. Just as they all looked to Nate to make things right, Betsy was the one who should take it over now.

She glanced at Sophie to ask her about Betsy, but changed her mind. The grifter was too busy with Nate. That idiot did the same as Hardison – she didn’t know how he managed it, but they let him go without questions. He used Sophie’s jacket to hide his taped arm, and only his deathly white face showed something was wrong with him.

She knew he couldn’t let them take him before they finished Don Lazzara, but his life was hanging on a few thin layers of plastic. Sophie’s not so soft voice was clearly broaching the very same subject.

He said nothing. He just stood there and stared into nothing, as if his eyes weren’t willing to touch anything around him. Not even Penny’s voice coming from above his head could make him move or look up.

They really had a huge screen in this waiting room, just as Hardison predicted. And the PVA ceremony was on. She glanced at the stage, then turned her back to it. Their retreat from the ceremony felt like hours, when in fact they'd just finished with the Best Comedy Actress, heading for the main nominations and awards. It felt surrealistic.

Her life wasn’t there now. It was here.

With these people, she realized watching them all.

Parker was sitting next to Hardison, guarding him from the curious eyes of any medical worker who would see his slumped figure and ashen face and call for stretchers again – and his shaky fingers flew over the keyboard. He didn’t stop typing this entire time, with stricken eyes glued to the screen.

Sophie and Nate stood behind them.

All of them looked like the shocked survivors of an airplane crash, with empty eyes, lost and drained. Yet, she could feel an aura of silent awareness around them, just like she felt her own. Flee or fight still soaked her nerves, shook her limbs in involuntary trembles.

The long corridor that led to the lobby was open, so she could see all the way back. The cops that helped the paramedics were still there. The black one watched them from a distance, his partner talking with the nurse at the reception desk. She noticed that Parker was watching them too, so there was no need to warn Nate and Sophie, whose backs were turned to them. At least, not for now. Not while they had something much more important to worry about.

She looked again at the doors that took him away. All they could do now was wait, and pray, and wait. She almost regretted they weren’t in the tunnels anymore; that would give her something to do, something else to fear – even panic would be better than this sticky dread that held her soul in a suffocating grasp.

She prepared herself for long hours of waiting – but the door opened, and Dr. DeBoer came out. The fear froze in her throat – only a few minutes had passed, they couldn’t even have prepared Eliot for operation yet. They all stared at the man, his slow, tired unbuttoning of his scrubs.

Hardison stopped typing; his fingers stood in the air above the keyboard.

Nate was the first to move to him. DeBoer raised his head to look at him, startled, then looked at all of them behind him, four frozen people. “Dr. Sciortino is here, he took over,” he quickly said. “I’m just not needed in the hall.”

 _Damn you, you fool_. She felt the tears in her eyes – she'd managed not to cry this entire time, and now she lost it completely.

“Sorry,” he said.

“What can you tell us, for now?” Nate’s voice didn’t sound very forgiving, he gritted the words.

“Nothing, no predictions yet. But be prepared for the worst, the paramedics barely arrived in time. His vital signs are low, he is already in a deep coma, and-” Nate’s hand flashed out without warning, catching the doctor’s jacket under his throat, pulling him onto his toes.

It was so sudden that nobody had time to react, except to stare in disbelief. Nate’s voice again had that edge she heard before when he spoke, deadly dry. “Where is your ID badge, Dr. DeBoer?” he snarled in the man’s face, and he felt his chest, searching… and found nothing. “You see, when a man, _supposedly in a deep coma_ , snatches your ID badge, out of pure habit, that’s means that you can take all your predictions and-”

“Nate,” Sophie finally gathered enough mind to react; her tired, quiet voice stopped his rage. He stood motionless for a second, then let go of his jacket.

“What I’m tryin’ to say,” his voice suddenly sounded slurred and softer, “is that you don’t know anything about him. I was askin’ what you were doing with him, not what you think his chances are.”

“I understand,” DeBoer said calmly, seemingly not disturbed by this outburst at all. “They are stabilizing him and preparing for operation, an anesthesiologist is working on him right now. It takes a little longer than usual. Dr. Sciortino will stop the internal bleeding. We’ll know more after that.”

“Thank you.” Nate took a step back and the doctor used the chance to move away from him.

Florence slowly bent and put her head between her knees. The dark blue coveralls scratched her bruised cheek, but she stayed down, refusing to feel, think, do anything.

She had only fifteen seconds of calming darkness, when a new voice came close, and she quickly straightened up. Bonnano finally arrived, and she let out a sigh of relief. He wasn’t alone, three hazmat suits with a big metal box came with him.

His voice shook the very chair she was sitting on. “You brought it _here_? In the fucking hospital?!”

“No other way,” Nate just waved off his anger, pointing at her. “It’s safe. Florence, give ‘em the egg.”

She took the backpack from her back – letting it sit on the floor felt too careless – and opened it. The grenades were on top. She did exactly the same moves when they arrived at the metal door, finding a frantic Hardison pacing in front of the door he couldn’t open, wild-eyed – he could see where Eliot was, his dot wasn’t moving – and in just one moment, all the despair came back, her breathing snapped out of rhythm, heading toward hyperventilation. She bit her lip as hard as she could and _stopped_ it.

She tucked the hand grenades deeper, under her dress and the award, under all the other things Parker had in there. The egg was wrapped in two jackets. She held it out to Bonnano with a small smile, but the hazmat suits stepped in. “A plastic bottle corroded with acid,” she quickly said. “Still sealed, though.”

The suits put it in a box, sealed it and carried it away without a word, and she was left there, sitting under Bonnano’s piercing eyes. Could he read a guilty conscience, recognize a criminal with just one look? Judging by his lips in a thin line and grim eyes, he could. _You shot a man_. She had blood on her hands. Not just Eliot’s.

“Patrick,” Nate called him right in the moment another flood of tears threatened to pour out.

“Congratulations on your award, Mrs. McCoy,” Bonnano said just that, the dryness in his voice matching Nate’s. She slowly nodded, couldn’t even move her face into a smile.

“So, a low profile? Invisible?” Bonnano said, turning to Nate. “The Paramount building evacuated because of a fire – two agents dead, Nate, _dead_ – Dvorak Security people carried around, unconscious, a dead man below the stage, under the very feet of all the honorable guests – a chase, shootings, demolition, chaos… what the fuck have you done?! What has he done?! If you killed… if he killed someone, there’s nothing I can do – nor would I want to. Not anymore.”

Hardison stopped typing, again.

She held her breath, watching Nate, just now becoming aware that they were the bad guys here – Don Lazzara had spread their descriptions to all law enforcement services, and they would be accused of everything. She glanced at the two cops at the lobby, still there, still monitoring them – they weren’t with Bonnano.

“You have a four minute drive back to the Opera House,” Nate said finally, his voice cold and dry. “You have one minute after that to go to the ceremony, to the VIP tables. Take a few men with you, don’t go alone. Be there, and wait. I’ll send you a few guidelines and cues along the way, you’ll know what to do.” He held out his hand with an earbud in his palm, and Bonnano took it. “Hardison made a separate channel for the two of us, you won’t hear anything else.”

“You didn’t answer my questions,” Bonnano’s voice now fell into a deep snarl.

“We’ll be here, if you want to arrest us after that,” Nate’s eyes swiveled towards the big doors, but fell back on Bonnano before they reached them. “We aren’t going anywhere. You have to trust me for five more minutes… after that, you’re on your own. Do what you want to do. What you think you have to.”

Bonnano followed Nate’s eyes, and when he spoke, his voice was a nuance softer. “I’ll do that. We’ll talk… after this is done. Did they tell you anything?”

“The same words you told me when you got to him in the warehouse. Still alive, but barely, and no predictions for now.”

“The same thing, but one difference,” a calm voice somewhere behind them said. Florence almost jumped on her feet. Betsy had come to them unnoticed while they were talking – finally, _finally_ – and her smile didn’t seem too worried.

“He is fighting the anesthesia, idiot. They are trying to find the right dose, so I came to tell you he is stable,” she continued. “And that difference…Last time, he was dying. Now, he's thinking,” she smiled. “They can’t recognize that, but I know.”

“How?” Nate asked, suddenly quiet.

“A change in the heart rate; used that to call him on his shit the last time, when he tried to pretend he was sleeping, or not thinking, or not being distressed,” she said. “Pathetic attempts, I must say. Now, he heard my voice, and immediately went into ‘survival plan’ mode. I could hear his heartbeat spelling S-H-I-T over and over again.”

Florence choked; the lifting of the weight that troubled her breathing was so sudden, that she had problems inhaling without it… just with a few words, and a smile, Betsy did what even Dr. Sciortino’s best news couldn’t. But that relief ended her self-control; the tears ran down her face.

Sophie turned around, blindly, and fell in the chair near Hardison.

Bonnano and Nate were still standing. Nate’s casual stance, with one hand in his pocket, didn’t fool Betsy, though, her eyes fell on him and stayed there. Bonnano noticed her eyes narrowing, and took a step back. The instinctive reaction of all the people that knew her well, Florence realized.

“Patrick, go now. Everything is riding on these five minutes – try not to delay,” Nate said, not paying attention to Betsy – okay, maybe there was one who wasn’t intimidated by her glare – and Patrick checked his watch.

“Be here when I get back,” Patrick said and left.

“So, how important are those five minutes?” Betsy asked Nate.

“We are all dead if we don’t finish it now. That important.”

Her eyes went over all of them, slowly; Hardison hunched into his shoulders when her gaze fell on him. “I’ve already prepared his old room, 304 – I think we have one more room free in the same corridor,” she said finally. “You have five minutes. No more.”

“We are famous for our impeccable timing,” Nate even managed to smile. “Aren't we, Hardison?”

Hardison raised his head – not looking anywhere near Betsy – and watched the PVA above their heads for a few seconds. Penny was laughing at some joke, a loud applause spread over the room. “If they don’t change anything, we’re good.” His weak whisper drew more clouds to Betsy’s face.

“Now, while you wait, paper work.” Betsy turned to the lobby. “Officers!” her voice raised. “Would you be so kind as to take the statements?”

Florence froze, not turning around, trying to read Nate’s face and eyes, to see what to do and how to act… but his face was set in an attentive smile, nothing more. He watched the two men approaching, his head slightly tilted – she already knew how fast his thoughts whirled, she’d seen that before - and when they passed near her, he glanced at Betsy and grinned.

Betsy grinned back. Calmly.

“Officer…” she stepped closer to the black cop and glaringly read the name on his badge. “…Roberts, isn’t it? These people were mugged. They’ll give you a short description of their attackers. You’ll write down what they said.”

“Yes, ma’am,” the young black cop rolled his eyes; his partner chuckled. “State police officers know the procedure.”

Her smile disappeared. _B_ _oth_ officers took one step back.

It was enough for Florence, she didn’t have to see the same velvet eyes, now glaring at each other. They _were_ Bonnano’s men – and she also knew the connection between Betsy and Bonnano now, the thing she had noticed before.

“I’ll speak with them,” Sophie got up from her chair, and Betsy waved her hand, dismissing them.

“I’ll go back and…” Betsy stopped and looked around. “Where’s Parker?”

Florence quickly turned her head; the chair beside Hardison was empty. The thief was gone.

.

.

.

***

.

Somewhere along the way, the scent of her hair disappeared.

He knew nothing. The outer world slowly rolled around him, a lazy, suffocating tar pit. Only his thoughts were proof he was still alive – so he continued to think. It wasn’t, anymore, the thread that connected him to reality – there wasn’t anything around him to connect to – it was a deep, deep sinking into one spark inside him. One spark that could endure the pain that was killing him.

The decision to stay alive, that was all he needed. Refusing to lose, refusing to die, blah blah, the same shit all over again. He was so tired of reciting motivational crap to himself, so he ignored everything.

One thought every ten seconds. Checking into life, over and over again.

When overwhelmed, retreat, regroup, attack.

He was stuck in retreating. He couldn’t go deeper. It was okay – he would stay here as long as it took, slowly strengthening the spark, making the thread stronger. He would get back to that damn reality, find out what happened. He had to see them. Had to know they were alright.

He fought the darkness that was dragging him down into the tar. If he let himself go, he would never be able to escape that sticky grip. No coming back. And the darkness flickered with greyness, started to clear out.

He remembered the burning sensation of cold fluids rushing through his veins.

He remembered the blinding lights that hurt his eyes even through closed eyelids.

He remembered _her_ voice.

“…I said he could. He knows how. He drove a car while on a triple morphine overdose. Hit him with everything you have.”

“But-”

“Just do it, Nelly, we’re running out of time.”

Betsy. He was in Mass Gen. There was no way he could push his eyelids up, no strength for that, but he had to see her. He had questions – not sure which ones, but he needed to know _everything_. He moved his hand; his fingers felt something cold.

The next moment something warm held his hand. “Listen to me,” she whispered, he felt her near. “Stop fighting the drugs, Eliot, we have to stop that bleeding. Let it go.” Her voice was soft and upset. _Upset, Betsy_? What was wrong with her?

He couldn’t speak, plastic was blocking his mouth and nose, he couldn’t move his hands, not even his fingers, and he didn’t know-

“They are fine.” Her hand trailed through his hair, gently. “Safe. And they are all here.” Her voice fell to an even softer whisper. “You have to sleep now. I will wake you up. I promise.”

Damn, how she knew him. He balanced on the edge, keeping himself alert; it wasn’t thinking, he couldn’t put his thoughts in the right order. His mind couldn’t decide anything, yet he knew he trusted her… and his body took over before he could give any command.

The tar pit sucked him in the moment he let himself go. This wasn’t stopping, was his last thought before everything went silent; this was regrouping.

.

.

.

***

.

“Where the hell are you, Parker?” Nate hissed the question; his voice was husky with weakness.

“Around. Walking. Be back soon.” When she heard her voice in her ear, Florence remembered they still had the earbuds.

“We ain’t done yet – don’t go too far,” Hardison said. He raised his eyes to Nate and put his laptop on a small coffee table near the chairs, so they could all see it. She pulled her chair closer.

It was too strange to watch the PVA now, to hear all that mindless blather. She couldn’t stand those fake smiles. One minute passed and Hardison did nothing relevant with his tablet. Nate typed on the laptop, and though it was strange, her attention trailed off.

She looked at her sneakers instead of the PVA glamour. Black, wet, muddy. All of them left mud on the white floor. A few traces were mixed with drops of blood. She checked her hands. There was still blood on her fingers, though she wiped them off in the van, but she observed it dully, without any feeling. Freaking out because of the blood would be so cliché, she was really glad she wasn’t disturbed by it.

The thing that did disturb her, though, was the inability to close her eyes without his eyes flashing in that darkness. It was just a moment; his eyes were open when they found him, just one second… but even the memory of the faltering light in his eyes brought her to the edge of hyperventilation again. Maybe he didn’t see her at all, there wasn’t any recognition in his gaze, just a reaction to the flashlight… but what scared her the most wasn’t watching that light fading… it was what she read in them. It was calm. If the lights had been stronger, she was sure she would see a smile behind it. A slow, lazy smile.

She entangled her fingers until it hurt. Physical pain should ease this cut in her soul, that ached in sharp stabs. One thought, one stab, and the pain that accumulated until she thought her brain would explode before her heart.

If she saw pain or fear in his eyes, she would’ve been able to rationalize it and move on. But she saw peace, and that sent dread through her.

She wasn’t aware that she had curled up in a ball in the chair until a hand landed on her shoulder. “You okay?” Hardison shuffled near her. She raised her head to look at him, at the warm, worried eyes, and stopped the involuntary move of her arms. Hugging him as tight as she could would hurt him.

“W-w,” her teeth chattered on the first letter, _will be_ , and Hardison’s face became a gray shape smudged with her tears. Shit, she was losing it, she was one step from a shaking, bawling idiot. Not even clutching her fingers with all her strength could get her together, it just drew his attention.

“Here, take this,” he nudged her with his tablet. “You’ll help me, so concentrate, okay?” He pushed the tablet into her hands. “When I tell you, you’ll press those three pictures. Can you do that?”

She looked around; Sophie was busy with Betsy’s son, Parker was still missing, and Nate stood lost, not watching anything, not touching anything, in his own bubble. She looked better; no, he was whispering something, probably to Bonnano. “Sure, just say when,” she uttered the words automatically.

“Watch what we are doing, and... don’t think about anything else. You will be our only audience for taking Don Lazzara down,” Hardison turned his head to the TV. “You here… and two billion people over there.”

Great. The PVA dazzled above their heads. She did bring the Five Horsemen of the Apocalypse to the ceremony, after all. Bonnano’s words still stung. Maybe later, she'd try to see everything that they had done from his point of view, or any of people that secured the event, but now she could only think about what they _gave_. What they were still giving. If nothing else, that hall would be full of viruses by now, spreading who knows what destruction to innocent people. And she knew Eliot wouldn’t even blink if he was asked if that was the thing he gave his life for. It was worth it.

That thought brought her no comfort, just more tears.

A hand reached from behind, over her shoulder, putting a cup in front of her face. Sophie held another one when she sat in the chair beside her. Hot tea. She tasted it. More than half of it was sugar. The grifter’s moves were stiff and controlled, but when Nate turned around to look at them and the TV, Sophie changed her posture immediately, relaxing. Florence watched that interplay, remembering that Nate didn’t know she stopped the bullet flying toward him and Eliot. She quickly averted her eyes, stopping that scene from flashing before her, and drank her tea. The warm fluid helped with her chattering teeth, swallowing released her strangled throat.

“Nate,” Hardison called. “They are showing movie clips for the Best Actor Category. The announcement of the winner will follow in a minute.”

Nate came a step closer, watching both the TV, and laptop on the small table. Florence peeked at the tablet she held. Just three icons on the desktop, nothing more, named One, Two, and Three.

“Okay, we can start,” Nate sighed. “Send my text to her teleprompter, and override their communication.”

Hardison grinned and clicked a few buttons. “Florence, watch Penny’s face,” he said to her.

The camera showed Penny watching the clips; if she didn’t know what was going on, Florence would surely have missed her smile freezing. Her eyes widened a little. Poor woman, cut off everything in the middle of the most important hosting duty of her life.

“Do you really have to-” Florence bit her lip, feeling sorry for her.

“She’ll have everything she needs, don’t worry,” Hardison said. “But right now, in the main control room, the chief coordinator is screaming in agony. Okay, Nate, you’re on.”

“What’s her real name? Can’t call her Penny.”

“Kaley Cuoco.”

Nate touched his earbud; Florence didn’t know the exact mechanism those things worked on, and how they switched channels, but when he spoke, she didn’t hear him in her earbud anymore, “Hello, Miss Cuoco, this is Inspector Webster from the Massachusetts State Police; we took over your communication set and we’ll be using it for a few minutes. You will help us with a criminal investigation that’s currently taking place at the ceremony, and then you’ll be directed back to your coordinators.”

Florence watched Penny while she listened to the new voice; she glanced to the movie clips and the two actors holding the envelope with the winning name. “Nothing will change in the procedure,” Nate’s confident, calm voice continued, following her eyes. “The new scenario is already sent to your teleprompter, and everything will go as smooth as a little sketchbetween nominations. The audience will be intrigued, and you’ll do just fine. You now just continue with the arranged scenario, and follow it unless I tell you otherwise.”

Oh, so Penny wasn't acting when performing that annoyed, confused smile at Sheldon, Florence noticed when a familiar twitch went over the host’s face.

The movie clips ended with a loud applause, and actors moved closer to the microphone.

“And the winner of the Best Actor is… Robert Downey Jr!!”

The hall exploded, as expected. Penny applauded, too, while camera rolled, following Downey moving to the stage, taking congratulations from colleagues as he passed their tables.

“What a grace,” Sophie said quietly. Nate just rolled his eyes.

Florence used that opportunity to glance over her shoulder towards the door of the surgery, but Hardison waved his hand in front of her face. “Hey… concentrate, and don’t think about anything else. I’ll keep you occupied… I even promise I’ll explain everything. And Nate will explain things, too.”

“I will?” Nate asked.

“Yep, everything she asks. It’s about time, don’t ya think?”

Florence produced one small smile for the hacker. She was grateful, but she had no questions now, everything was so irrelevant. He continued without pause, keeping her eyes in a lock. “Now you’ll see what I’ve been doing this entire time. First of all, hacking into their control room. Overriding their communications was the easiest part, but entering their broadcasting frequency was a real bitch. I had to-” Nate raised his hand and stopped him.

On TV, Downey took the microphone, but Nate’s words to Penny covered his speech, “You will be a part of a coordinated police action. One person will be taken into custody – to avoid any danger, it will be played as if it was part of the show. If you are aware of the terrorism threat, look directly into the outer left camera.”

Penny turned her head and glanced directly into their eyes for a moment. “Good,” Nate continued. “So you know what’s at stake. There is no danger, though, the threat has been dealt with, we only have to finish it. Relax.”

The voice from the TV spoke louder. “… and according to rumors that are spreading at the speed of light,” Robert Downey drew her attention again, “my next role is almost confirmed. I will be the next bad guy on The Magnificent Seven.” The roar from the audience covered the choking sound that escaped her. When she looked at Sophie, she just blinked one lazy eyelash wave at her. The grifter had no idea what miracle she'd performed – stars of his reputation didn’t take guest roles in small shows.

Penny followed the scenario, continued with the anecdotes from filmings.

“He simply said yes when I suggested it,” Sophie shrugged. “He is geekish enough to think of it as something… something cool.” The grifter’s slight hesitation at the last words, and her eyes that flickered for a moment, unfocused, warned Florence. She turned around just in time to see two nurses hurrying to the surgery. Almost running.

The thin plastic cup in her hand, squeezed, threw up the hot tea on her coveralls, missing her tablet by an inch.

For a moment nobody talked, moved.

“Maybe we should ask-” Hardison uttered, helplessly torn between the TV and the door, caught somewhere in between.

“Continue.” Nate’s voice, even colder, cut through their stupor. He didn’t look at the nurses.

“Nate, fuck the priorities! We have to know-”

“No priorities,” Nate moved, turned the laptop to the hacker. “Logic. Continue, Hardison.”

“ _What damn logic_?” she wanted to scream, but no sound escaped. She watched, in silence, Hardison’s struggle to keep sitting, his face set into a snarl. Nate’s coldness grew an arctic quality, and the very air between them vibrated.

It took just a second for their controlled masks to shatter, revealing unstrung, shaken, scared people. But before her eyes, they remembered they couldn’t allow that right now, and she witnessed, holding her breath, the veils that fell again over their eyes, hiding everything, returning them to the here and now.

A new weight settled on her heart when she took in their efforts to maintain their masks. Sophie’s delicate hands, white at the knuckles, Hardison’s snarl covering a raw pain, Nate’s avoiding looking at the door of the surgery… they never protected themselves. They protected each other, shielded them from their own pain. Instinctively, natural as breathing, without thinking about it.

And within that absolute stillness that fell on them, she understood, finally, how much they depended on each other, how entwined their lives were. Cut off one of them, and their balance was endangered. The Leverage team was a gracious ballet dancer, able to spin in impossible pirouettes… but only if all the parts were there.

Her eyes flickered to the door that took one of them away. They’d lost their static, the pirouette slowed down, went out of its axis, just one second from stumbling.

Nate was the one who had to spin it back into the balance; he did that this entire time. He always gave them the ignition, pushed them into the spin, giving them speed. She watched the muscle tilting in his jaw, and his effort to open the firmly closed mouth. “Hardison…” he finally said. “The only way to protect everybody is to eliminate the threat. Do your job. Now.”

Dear god, Don Lazzara could learn from him. That _now_ fell like a leaden cover, with a dull sound – and Hardison’s fingers obeyed the order before his mind recognized the words.

This time, maybe for the first time since she met them, she was able to intervene and help them when they needed it; her brain and feelings were dull with fear, giving her a distance from everything.

She moved her hands to break the frozen stupor, put the cup on her knees.

“I still don’t know how you’re gonna connect him to that terrorism,” she heard her own voice; it sounded strangely flat and empty. “It’s obvious he had nothing to do with that egg. Bonnano knows it. And you can’t accuse him of trying to kill me, or you, because it would put us all in the spotlight, bringing more danger.”

Her voice set them all into a different gear; a client, a stranger, an intruder was with them.

Hardison glared at Nate, his eyebrows rose in nudging. Nate cleared his throat.

“You’re right, we can’t and won’t do any of…” he started the explanation – _unbelievable_ \- but a change in Penny’s voice made them all look up. The cheerfulness was gone.

“It seems that the Boston State Police, while securing this event, discovered interesting criminal activities.” Though Penny’s voice became official, the smile was still present. “So, in the tradition of the best crime shows, which we honored here tonight, we shall help them solve the crime right here, with our experts in the control room. Can we have applause for the Boston State Police?” A reluctant, but loud applause followed her words – she was good, she made them a part of the show, and her smile erased all the seriousness of the situation, making it something unusual and funny. She raised her hand, the applause stopped. Her smile grew wider. “Nero Wolfe Mystery meets CSI – what does a false terrorism threat have in common with a body found under the stage? Suspense, bad guys, and real suspects, all here tonight.”

She let the applause go without stopping it this time, her eyes, just for a moment, revealing her panic. Florence felt sorry for her, and more so for the organizers… but she knew everything would pay off in the end, making this the most famous PVA ceremony of all time.

The screens behind Penny darkened for a few seconds.

In that moment Sophie darted from her chair; Nate’s knees buckled and she caught him a moment before he fell. She quickly waved off a passing technician; her shoulder provided support and she took him a few steps away to a chair, before Florence and Hardison had time even to think about getting up and helping her.

“Just continue,” Nate whispered. “Sitting is okay, now. Go on.” Sophie stayed by his side, her hand gently resting on his shoulder.

When Florence looked back at the TV, Don Lazzara’s face was on the screens, onstage.

“Now, we’ll wait a second to see if they have any feeling for dramatics up there in the control room, or I will have to take over their camer-” Hardison huffed when the camera moved off Penny and Robert Downey Jr., searching and finding Don Lazzara at the VIP tables. “Good, they remembered he was splashed with water.”

Just then Florence connected the dots – it was a recording on the screens, not him in real time, sitting.

The image was frozen. But she recognized the background, the flower ornaments behind him.

“This is from the cocktail party,” she breathed. “We didn’t have the earbuds, all the electronic devices were jammed. How did you-”

Hardison waved his head to Nate. “He is willing to collapse just to avoid explanation,” he grinned, a gray ghost of a smile, revealing how close to collapsing he really was. “So I’ll tell you. Remember the two cameras on each end of the blue velvet wall? You said we wouldn’t be recorded unless we walked behind Brad Pitt smiling… I took all their footage.”

“And you did what? It was an overall recording, no sound – if you were lucky, you could catch a few seconds of Don Lazzara passing, or standing in the crowd, but-” she looked up when Penny spoke.

“We shall need the help of our sign language interpreter for this one, the video has no sound,” Penny smiled at the man who was standing ready. Then she turned to Robert Downey Jr. “And it’s a strange coincidence we have here maybe the only man who can tell the rest of our audience what those signs mean, as he demonstrated not so long ago. Robert, would you be so kind?”

Florence blinked. All the little pieces started to fall, slowly, into the right places; she glanced at Nate, his sharp eyes glued to the screen. Right, their timing _was_ impeccable.

“You’re forgetting mirrors at the cocktail party,” Hardison said. “The mirrors on the walls, and mirrors on the columns, and the zoom function. I worked on the footage this entire time, and this is the result.” He moved his hand, and the recording on the screens moved, too.

Yes, now she could see that; this was a reflection, she was looking at a column mirror.

Don Lazzara on the huge screen narrowed his eyes, and spat words with a force visible even without the sound. The hands of the interpreter moved.

“ _I didn’t make this terrorism threat in vain_ ,” said Robert Downey Jr., his rich, deep voice echoed through the hall. The audience gasped, and a slow murmur rose.

The camera flashed to the real Don Lazzara. He didn’t change his posture, his face was raised to the screens just like everybody else’s, and a hint of a derisive smile rested on his lips. He looked like he was having good fun, Florence saw, like he was about to applaud, or rise his thumb up.

“This isn’t enough,” she whispered. “One sentence, pulled out of context, this would never go to court, or do any damage to him. He knows that.” But while she was saying that, Bonnano and two cops came to his table.

“Mr. Lazzara, Boston State Police would like to ask you a few questions.”

“No problem, officer,” his smile broadened. “I’m glad to answer any question you have. We will all laugh at this later.” His head turned to the audience and he smiled. “I have no idea about any threat, this was an internal joke. But I admire your eagerness and all the efforts you put into our security. Good job.”

“Florence, press the first icon on the tablet,” Hardison said and she quickly did it. The screens changed to phone records; a pulsing green number with his name, on the black background darted a green line to a server in Uzbekistan, jumped over Japan, Australia, Los Angeles, and returned to Boston, to finally enter the Police phone call listings, all over the map.

“I presume this is your number?” Bonnano asked. “This number reported a bomb to our operator.”

“Apparently, it _was_ my number,” Don Lazzara sighed in indignation. “I can recognize a set-up when I see it. Can you, officer? May I ask who provided this information, and how? Maybe that’s the trail you should follow instead.”

“He is good,” Hardison grinned. “Nate?”

“We won’t let Robert Downey get bored,” Nate said. “Patrick, continue.”

“We followed that exact trail, Mr. Lazzara.” The softness of Bonnano’s voice matched the exact tone he had while luring Knudsen into disaster at the mine, and Florence held her breath. “Your man, who you sent to control the water performance, left all the info about your doings before he fled. We have everything. We know exactly what you arranged, and why. A false terrorism threat is the least of your problems.”

“That’s ridiculous. You have some lunatic – they splashed me with water.”

“We have one more clip ready to show,” Penny said, stopping his explanation. “And I’d like to ask our audience for a little patience and cooperation – after all, it’s not every day that you witness real-time crime solving.” This time, her smile was coquettish, inviting them. She controlled them with an ease, and Florence seriously thought about bringing _her_ in to be the next bad guy in the sixth season.

But the next video erased all her thoughts about the show.

The cocktail party, again, but this time Don Lazzara was with Knudsen. Her stomach ached seeing that dead walking face now, and a sudden wave of nausea almost made her run away to the nearest toilet. But she forced herself to swallow, and control that urge.

The screen moved, and Robert Downey Jr.’s voice started slow narrating.

“ _I told you once, and I won’t repeat myself, you’re here only to show people that I believe you’re innocent. If you move just one step away from me, you’ll pay dearly_.” The recording paused to show everybody clearly that Knudsen was about to speak, “ _I don’t give a damn what you think. Dvorak Security are my men, you keep forgetting that._ ” Downey even changed his voice when speaking Knudsen’s words, naturally, his eyes concentrated on the hands of the interpreter, just glancing quickly to the screen. His voice went a nuance deeper when he returned to Don Lazzara, “ _I didn’t make this terrorism threat in vain! I put too much into your shit, Robert, and I won’t – look at me, your pathetic piece of shit! – and I won’t let you ruin everything with your stupidity! Is that clear!? You’re staying here. With me. Or, god is my witness, I will end you!_ ” A pause, then higher voice. “ _Fuck you, uncle. I’m leaving. Stay away from me and my men._ ”

Florence looked at Nate again, but it wasn’t the time to ask for explanations now, everything changed too fast.

“Why is a family dispute, a private matter,” Don Lazzara’s voice rose in justified anger. “recorded, illegally, and shown publicly, officer?! My lawyers will have a few things to say, I’m afraid – this just crossed every line, and you’re way out of your prerogatives.”

Indeed, why? His words echoed her own confused thoughts.

“This would be a private matter, Mr. Lazzara, if something didn’t change,” Bonnano said. “Now it’s police business. Your nephew, Robert Knudsen, was found dead here at the ceremony.”

She opened her mouth and closed it, the same way Don Lazzara did. But the mob boss schooled his features into neutral, not knowing how to react to the news he already knew… and her… she looked at Nate. At his calm, cold face, at his eyes that were pinning his mark on the screen, watching him starting to squirm under his hand. There was something utterly terrifying in his coldness. For now she knew what he had done.

“No comment,” Don Lazzara said. “One small quarrel is just that… a small quarrel. I loved my nephew dearly… and I’m devastated.” The whisper of hundreds of voices went rustling through the audience, low and full of questions.

“Another video.” This time, even Penny’s voice was quieter.

The same cocktail party, but without Knudsen; his place by Don Lazzara had been taken by Goon A, they both, this time, faced the camera, Hardison didn’t have to catch the reflections. She knew they were watching Knudsen leaving. Robert Downey cleared his throat and started, “ _Stop Robert by any means. He will ruin everything. You have free hands_.” A pause, Don Lazzara stopping Goon A. Hardison zoomed the video as much as he could, and though pixelated, his face and eyes were clear. “ _Kill him,_ ” he said shortly.

She knew Hardison edited it – that _Kill him_ was for Eliot when they saw him watching them – but a dead silence fell on audience.

And Don Lazzara laughed.

“Good luck with this childish play,” he said. “I’d like to see a jury that will convict anybody on behalf of planted, edited, mute footage. Lip reading and sign interpretation is not valid evidence, there’s too much room for mistakes. Nobody can prove that those were my words. You have nothing, and my lawyers will dismiss this in two minutes. I had no reasons to kill my nephew. You have no motive.”

“Florence, press the second icon,” Hardison said.

Her fingers trembled. She clicked the icon, and on the other screen, behind Penny, a huge document flashed. She couldn’t read it, until Hardison zoomed in to a number somewhere near the bottom. 3 million dollars. _What the heck_?

“This is your motive,” Bonnano said. “You paid 3 million dollars bail for him – if he fled, you would lose every cent. And we just now saw him leaving, in spite of your threats. 3 million dollars is enough motive even for you.”

“And I would do that here? Now!?” The façade started to crack, his voice became an uncontrolled snarl.

“Well, you stated clearly that you didn’t make this terrorism threat in vain,” Bonnano smiled. “That should cover up the plain murder – all security would be alarmed, trigger happy, and in the mess and panic that should start, Robert Knudsen would be proclaimed either an accidental death, or something worse. Not connected to you, you were here the whole time. Almost all the time. Surely you weren’t in the hall where he was found.”

“Of course I was here, I did nothing-”

“But,” Bonnano interrupted his words. “Dvorak Security weren’t, exactly, _his_ men, right? They answered to you.”

“He was in charge, but yes, Dvo-Sec is my company. Why?”

“Because you sent a killer after him, and made sure that he would be accused of multiple murders, which would additionally delete all traces to you.”

The screens darkened completely. “Just a dramatic pause,” Florence heard Hardison’s murmur. Then they slowly changed, showing something completely different. No more reflected, pixelated footage from the cocktail party – this corridor was brightly lit, empty and strangely familiar.

“The laundry room corridor,” Hardison now whispered, and she quickly looked at him. His lips were tightly pressed, no grinning, no smile. He glanced at Nate, as if asking something, but Nate’s face, darker than ever, revealed nothing. Her unease grew rapidly.

Before she could ask anything, three men arrived in the corridor, going closer and closer to the camera; she remembered Eliot put one camera above the door of the laundry room, at the beginning. And she remembered those two agents that escorted them to the cocktail party… the Smiths. She had no idea what Goon A was doing down there with them.

They stopped; they saw something in front of them – one of the Smiths reacted to unseen people, or man, with a sigh and nodding. But much to her dismay, Goon A pulled out a gun and pointed it at the agents.

The recording stopped. “I couldn’t…” Hardison stuttered. “I couldn’t show it, Nate – they might have families watching this. I have it all, the police will have it, the entire recording, but not, not this way.”

Nate nodded. He released a long breath he was holding, and nodded to Hardison again. _Continue_.

The next scene, after that cut, showed only Goon A, slowly wiping his gun and putting it in his pocket, and taking out another one, pointing it in front of him.

A knife flew into him – both Florence and Sophie gasped, realizing which people he was aiming at – and he fired a couple of times.

“We ran back into the laundry room, and put the washing machine on the door,” Hardison whispered. “He killed two agents. Two bullets in the heads.”

“I had nothing to do with this!!” Don Lazzara’s voice, though he tried to sound outraged, sounded scared now.

“After you sent this man to kill your nephew, on your order?” Bonnano asked. “We got him, he was arrested while getting help for his knife wound. You nephew was good with knives, too bad he couldn’t stop him before he killed those two men.”

“What?! Robert with knives? What the hell-”

“Unfortunately, one of those bullets found its target. He managed to retreat to the basement, bleeding from the shoulder, but he died stumbling over that stage replica. He still had his shoulder holster on – with one remaining knife, matching the one we pulled out of your killer.”

Florence blinked. Nate told Eliot, after they rested in the stage replica hall, that he had an idea with that holster – now she knew what he had done, and why Eliot didn’t have his knives in the tunnels.

“You didn’t think you were safe, though,” Bonnano said. “So you used the terrorism threat to put the blame on someone else – you chose one guest and your Dvorak Security spread his description to the Secret Service, FBI and police – he was supposed to be accused of the murder, and killed.”

“Now, the last part…” Hardison whispered.

“Wait,” Nate’s voice was no stronger than his, but he managed to smile. “Let her do it.”

“Yep, you’re right. Florence, do you want to put the last nail in his coffin? Press the third icon.”

She slowly raised her hand and clicked it.

“We have one more video, just a few seconds, and this time we won’t need our interpreter and our fabulous narrator,” Penny chirped. “This video has sound, so watch and listen.”

This was completely new to her; what the hell had they been doing while she jumped around with Parker? She recognized Nate though his face was turned away from the camera, she saw only his back. And a riot cop that pushed and pulled him away. _Sophie_. It seemed that both him and the cop took care to keep their faces hidden – it wasn’t a coincidence. But Don Lazzara was completely visible, he looked directly into the camera. So was his man.

The unknown goon returned to Don Lazzara, and his whisper spread over the hall. “ _If he tries to run, or something, I can kill him without killing the cop_.”

Don Lazzara’s reply came immediately, snarled but completely clear. “ _He won’t try to run, you fool, he thinks he’s safe with the cop. And killing the cop is more important than killing him – we need victims for murderers, to cover up the real target. Kill the cop first, and arrange the gun and everything._ ”

Silence. The audience hushed quietly in a petrified murmur.

Don Lazzara’s face, set in stone, didn’t move. That was it.

Bonnano officially pulled out his handcuffs. “Mr. Lazzara, you’re under arrest for murder, conspiracy to commit a murder, murder of officers on duty,” he pushed him in front of him, and his voice trailed off while he recited him his rights. His men took the three goons that were sitting with him, and the small group went out to the backstage tunnel, disappearing in the darkness.

“Thank you all for your cooperation,” Penny shot a smile at the audience, “and thank you, Robert, for that magnificent performance. We can now continue with-”

The TV died.

They all stared at the black screen a few seconds, then slowly turned around.

Betsy lowered the remote. “Time’s up,” she said.

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***

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“Any news?” Hardison was the first to ask, slowly hoisting himself on his feet.

“Yes. Dr. Sciortino broke his personal record for number of curses per minute. He started when he saw who was on the table, and didn’t stop until I left. When he counted all the new shit, he was pouring three curses at the same time. It was fascinating to hear,” Betsy paused a second. “He is stable. The surgery won’t last too long – Sciortino isn’t digging for a bullet, and dealing with all that damage, he is simply cleaning the wound and sewing it all up together. They’ll soon transport him to SICU, in his room. He should be fine, when the transfusions and infusions kick in.” She hesitated a moment and her smile faded a little. “If everything goes as planned. We can’t predict everything, and he’s in a severe condition.”

“When will we be able to see him?” Sophie whispered.

“If I’m asked… after two months of complete isolation. But I guess the hospital policy won’t allow me to chain him to the wall in the basement. Though, this time, he won’t be allowed to play all that shit all over again – he is staying here as long as it takes, and I’ll make sure it takes ten days, at least.”

“What?” Hardison snorted, then gulped, stupefied by his own guts.

“Meet Janice and Rosalie,” Betsy waved her hand to the two nurses that came closer. Florence recognized the names even before Betsy continued. “Last time he made fools out of them – and trust me, they ain’t happy with him. To say they don’t like him is a very weak explanation of their current state of mind. And he will soon find out that messing with the people who take care of your personal hygiene while you’re unable to move... isn’t such a good strategy.”

Florence observed the two women – she had heard their voices when Eliot called them while they drove in the Challenger, and presumed they were young, but they both were about Betsy’s age, and double in size. Not fat, but muscular. Rosalie looked like she would be able to break him in one move, like a twig.

“Let’s concentrate on the more important matter.” Betsy waved to two technicians with wheelchairs. “You two are going to be taken care of. The rest of you, wait.”

Florence opened her mouth, met her eyes, shut it. Betsy raised her eyebrows.

“I’m good with waiting,” she said quietly. Betsy waited. It took five more seconds before Nate was helped into the wheelchair, and his attention diverted from then, and only then Florence dared to glare at Sophie. Fortunately, it was enough for Betsy. The nurse narrowed her eyes, studying her movement – Sophie got up to escort Nate, tucking, pretty helplessly, the jacket around him. Even Florence could see her stiffness.

Betsy waved to Rosalie, and Sophie was, in just one second, packed along with Hardison and Nate, and taken to the examination.

Good, now everything was under control. Except Parker. But control and Parker didn’t belong in the same sentence, anyway.

The problem, that ruined the slight ease of her worry, stood just three steps away from her, watching her with unreadable eyes. Being alone with Betsy wasn’t the crown of this day, in any scenario.

“I’ll just sit here and wait,” she said. “I’m fine. You go do your… stuff.” The damn tears, without any input from her brain, kept rolling in a steady rhythm, without any connection to everything around her. She couldn’t stop crying because she _wasn’t_ really crying.

“Come with me,” Betsy said. “We’ll take a look at that bruised face, and you’ll tell me everything that happened.”

This was getting worse and worse. And she couldn’t say no.

Betsy looked past her down the hall. “You too,” she added.

She quickly turned around. Parker was standing there, changed into decent, normal clothes, looking just like any unsuspicious visitor in the hospital would look like. Even her eyes showed _feelings_ ; a cloud of worry and queasy shrouded their usual brightness. And she held George in her hands, cradling the pot tightly, as if not sure what to do and what to say to him.

That was it. The tears blurred everything – this time she _cried_ , walking with Betsy who shooed them into a room, and she felt she wouldn’t ever be able to stop.

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***

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He felt moving, though he was pretty certain he wasn’t supposed to feel anything.

Moving, and lifting, and voices. The pain was dulled, just like his mind was – deep throbbing everywhere. Plastic on his face stopped any scent, but he could feel antiseptics all around him; he even remembered the touch of the hospital sheets on his skin. _A very distinctive fabric_. He knew where he was and what happened. He also knew, that it was too early to know anything; he shouldn’t be awake.

If this could be called ‘being awake’. He forced his eyes to open, and nothing happened. But his hands moved, he felt a touch of something different under his fingers; something plastic.

“See? That’s what I was talking about.” Betsy’s voice sounded morose. “It takes just two seconds.”

“Not good.” An unknown male voice. “You can’t have someone to watch over him every second, not even in the SICU. If he disconnects _all_ the IVs… put him in restraints for the night, and tomorrow, when he wakes up, we’ll see what’s next.”

Ah, so _that's_ what he wasdoing… he had no idea he touched an IV. They could just ask him, politely, to stop, but no, it was easier to pull out the heavy artillery first. Damn overkill.

“No. If we put him in restraints, we’ll have a spectacle, trust me,” Betsy said. “He’s floating near the surface now, but he won’t last for long, and night won’t be a problem. He has about a minute before being out completely.”

“Your call. I hope you’ll be able to keep him here longer this time.”

“Oh, you have no idea.” Betsy sounded worryingly hostile. He guessed that unknown man wasn’t the target of it – and that left only one possible victim for her fury. _Just great_.

His eyelids still felt like rusty, jammed shutters, but he was working on it… he trailed off, still unable to place himself in time. Too early to be awake.

A new sound came from the right side; a door opened and closed. He had been hearing the same sound, from the same distance, for too long – he now knew he was in his old room. That helped. Darkness, still all around him, filled with furniture, windows, and positions.

When Betsy came closer, he could tell by her touching things on the cupboard what she had there, what she touched. _She isn’t a threat_. Even the restraints wouldn’t be an obstacle; he knew how to get rid of them. His thoughts became clearer as he fought distress, trying to calm down.

Though the male voice had left, he felt she wasn’t alone in the room. Somebody else was there too, silent people, not moving, not talking. _Who, and why_?

That moved his eyelids, finally, and he blinked into the blinding light. She turned off the main light immediately, and only a reading light from behind the bed warmed the room. Yes, two shapes, standing a few steps away from the bed. Unknown. He blinked once, and shapes became two nurses. Both of them had their arms crossed over their chests, they stood there like a soldiers in parade stance.

One of them tilted her head to him. “Hello, Matt,” she said softly. His slow, sluggish brain sorted that voice with an effort. _Janice. Crap_.

“Hello, Daniel,” said the other one. _Rosalie. Double crap_.

He knew why they were here. This was a fucking set up. He couldn’t move his head, only his eyes to Betsy, still on the right side of the bed. He had an ally in her, right?

She returned his gaze. Then she tilted her head the same way they did, and said, softly, “Hello, Clarice.”

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***

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

%MCEPASTEBIN%


	68. Chapter 68

Chapter 68

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***

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It was a dark and stormy night.

That sentence reeled in Florence’s mind for hours, resulting in occasional bursts of quiet chuckles. But it really was. Dark. _And_ stormy.

She had spent most of the night – dark and stormy – sitting curled in a chair under the window in Eliot’s room, listening to his heart monitor, and the soft drizzle of rain.

Parker had put George on the cupboard by the bed, quietly murmuring explanations to the plant. George didn’t seem upset by the surroundings, on the contrary; he looked like he should explain a few things to Parker, not vice versa. When the thief left, his silent alertness spread all over the room, touching her. She could feel it. And she gave up on reminding herself that this was just stress induced anthropomorphism… it was more than that.

The plant was on high alert, and she felt safe enough to leave the room a few times during the night. Betsy put Hardison and Nate in 302, with one more bed for Sophie. The grifter decided to stay, not because of the huge bruise and cracked ribs, but to be near and watch over them, and she circulated from 302 to 304 every fifteen minutes.

Nate was out, just like Eliot was. Betsy said that they wouldn’t wake up until tomorrow. Nate should be able to leave after a day or two, after all the tests and monitoring the blood loss. Hardison was more or less okay, after they sewed the bicep wound; he was only under local anesthesia, and he was typing in his bed less than an hour after they transported him into the room.

After Betsy caught him sneaking out and going to 304, and hissed him back into the bed, he attacked with messages. It was easier to go ten meters down the hall to tell him how Eliot was doing, than to type long replies.

Betsy forbade any walking after midnight slowly started to crawl into dawn, and that stopped Sophie. When Florence sneaked out, for the last time, to see the rest of the team, room 302 was quiet and dark. Only Hardison still typed, tying up all the loose ends.

Parker paid no attention to Betsy’s orders, but her presence wasn’t comforting. She hadn’t said one word since they started their watch, except whispering to George, and she restlessly went from one room to another, unable to stay more than ten minutes in peace.

Florence didn’t try to tell her anything, she welcomed her being around. It kept her from falling asleep. A few times she was close to drifting away, but every time she closed her eyes, darkness attacked with vivid pictures and fear, stirring her and tying her stomach in a knot.

She waited, with aching, dry eyes, staring at the green numbers on his monitors.

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***

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“Orion was very upset when I took George away.” Parker’s voice pierced her drifting away, along with morning light that slapped her face through the shutters. Florence wasn’t sure which was more unpleasant. She uncurled herself, painfully, and rubbed her face. Her head was throbbing.

Then she jumped in panic to look at the bed; Eliot was still there, alive, still out… and breathing.

“What, Parker?’” she asked, sitting back in the chair. She blinked at the thief who was sitting on the window sill.

“And George wasn’t happy either, until I told him where I was taking him and why.” Parker’s face looked as pale and washed out as she felt. The thief swayed her legs, slowly, keeping her eyes steady on her. “They didn’t want to be separated,” she finished with a colorless voice.

Florence stared at her. Her throat clenched.

Parker jumped from the sill, landing without a sound. “Hardison told me to give you this,” she said, holding out her hand. With a phone in it. “He cloned your phone before, and put it in a new one, to replace the one you lost in the water.”

She slowly took the phone and looked at it. Her life. Her people. Her husband – all of them waiting to hear from her after the victory of last night. It was almost midnight in New Zealand now. Jethro was probably awake, waiting, giving her time to wake up, worrying why she hadn’t called him immediately after the ceremony. Probably trying to call her last night, getting only voice mail, or a disconnected message.

“You have to turn it on,” Parker said, returning to her post.

She did that, reluctantly, and instantly a cacophony filled the room; missed calls, pings, chirps, rings, emails, messages, twitter, notifications… her life was forcing its way back in her skull. The pulsing in her head resonated with all those sounds.

She schooled her face into calm emptiness. Attempting to smile would be too much now, not under Parker’s gaze. Her eyes reminded her of the first night she spent in their apartment, when the thief burned a hole in her head, staring at her without blinking. She was an intruder, maybe a potential enemy and threat then. It was extremely unnerving to see the same look in her eyes now. Because she knew why she watched her, what she feared to see.

“You checked Orion’s food and water?” she asked just to say something, anything. She left him everything he needed, but he wasn’t used to spending the night alone.

“No,” Parker said. “He walked after me, and meowed loudly. It wasn’t… nice.”

 _I got it, Parker, stop_.

“I told him I would bring George back, but I think I lied. You’ll go away with him before George returns home.”

She stood up. “I’ll go and make phone calls, and go to the cafeteria, and see the others – do you want something? Coffee? Breakfast?” She took five steps before she realized her sneakers were behind the chair, where she left them to dry. She quickly went back and fetched them, feeling Parker’s eyes on her.

Her second attempt to leave stopped when she passed by the bed, glancing at Eliot to check on him, like she did hundreds of times during the night. The small light had been warm, and it added some color to his face, but the pale daylight revealed his gray weariness, and all the wires and tubes connected to him. Betsy was brutally precise when she reported the final count – cuts, bruises, four broken ribs, dislocated wrist, one bullet graze… all that would be enough to knock down any normal man, even without a hole in his chest and internal bleeding.

The plastic oxygen mask covered half of his face, but she could see how the deep, dark shadows around his eyes grew deeper. And just now she saw that his neck was hurt too, a purplebruise covered it all.

She swallowed a sudden lump of renewed fear; Betsy knew him, but how much, exactly, could they trust her words and predictions? He looked bad. Watching all the monitors around him told her nothing. This awful immobility erased him, put him into a lower gear, even his breathing and heartbeat sounded…

“Do you think his heartbeat is slower than it should be?” she asked quietly.

“A bit,” Parker said behind her. She turned around to look at the thief. “Four thousand per hour,” Parker added. She didn’t look at her, or at the bed, her eyes were on her swinging feet.

Parker spent the night walking around, from room to room, standing by the beds and watching them all, restless, unable to stop. Counting the heartbeats. Florence could feel coils of tension winding in her lithe body. She was alone.

Florence slowly returned to her chair. The outer world would have to wait for some better time.

But she had no words to tell her. She didn’t know what fueled Parker, and what made her stop – she was an enigma and poking too close, too deep, might be dangerous. Thinking that her presence would make her less alone was stupid, she knew that, but it was the only thing she could give her right now. She curled back into the chair, and rubbed her neck, stiff from the one hour of almost-sleeping.

After a while she noticed that the thief’s shoes swayed in synchronization with the beeping of the heart monitor; the hypnotic mix of movement and sound lulled her again. She still feared closing her eyes, but she was dead tired, and her mind floated.

Betsy’s arrival saved her from returning to the present with a cut off scream, like she did every time she allowed herself to sink back into the night.

“Last check before I go home,” Betsy said. “You two are okay?”

“Great,” she uttered, watching her checking Eliot and writing something on the check list. She kept silent, to not disturb her. But when Betsy left the papers on the cupboard, she didn’t check any of the tubes or IVs, she searched under his pillow first.

“How’s he?” she asked, not able to restrain herself any longer.

“Alive,” she said, not turning to them. “All vital signs are regular… but don’t expect him to wake up soon. We had to give him a nasty cocktail to keep him out. And we’ll continue with that as soon as he wakes up from this dose. It’s better for him to stay drugged as long as we can prolong it… this shit hurt.”

“But he’ll wake up today?”

“Yep.” Betsy finished checking the tubes and finally turned to them. Florence tried to read anything from her face, but there was no smile now, just a cold professionalism and familiar sharpness.

Maybe she was just tired, she tried to reassure herself. This Betsy was different from last night’s one – she felt her cheeks blushing when she remembered the scene she made when Betsy cleaned the dirt from her bruised face. She winced and squeaked – and immediately remembered how she mocked him about male heroes wincing when somebody tended to their wounds later. While they’d been in the tunnels, she didn’t even notice any pain. She had tried to keep some composure in front of Betsy, but she lost it completely then, fell into a babbling, crying spree. The fact that she couldn’t remember even one third of the things she said troubled her immensely – but she clearly remembered the keen concentration in those dark eyes that studied her with disturbing sharpness.

She told her everything that happened, and, she feared, much more than she thought she said. But that breakdown spared her from an intelligent talk with her – it ended with Betsy wrapping her in a blanket to warm her up, and putting her in a bed until she stopped shaking. It felt like hours before she was able to get up and function again – almost as long as Sciortino needed to finish the operation. She was neither stable or normal when she followed him here, into room 304 – but maybe that helped. Betsy didn’t try to throw her out, nor did she forbid anything to her.

Their exchange during the rest of the night was only simple questions and short answers, but when Betsy spoke to her, her eyes remained disturbingly sharp, all the time. The nurse was gentle with Parker, her eyes would instantly change and soften. Florence had no idea what she had done to provoke this, but now she knew why Hardison was so afraid of her.

Sophie’s arrival saved her from one more round of studying her sneakers.

“Oh, there you are,” Sophie sailed into the room fresh, dazzling, radiating a smile that warmed everything, as if she hadn’t spent the night in a hospital bed with painkillers and awful hair. Damn, that hair, soaked in the flood should’ve been a tangled mess, but somehow, drying on its own, it formed into shining waves that fell to her shoulders. Florence knew that looking in the mirror, for her, was the least clever thing to do. “You two definitely have to go and catch some sleep,” the grifter continued.

She glanced at the bed. Yes, she could barely keep her eyes open, and the damp coveralls reeked of mold and sweat, but leaving didn’t cross her mind at all.

“I’m fine,” she responded at the same time Parker said, “I’ve slept enough.”

“Of course you are,” Sophie smiled, taking her chair. “But if you want to be here tonight, instead attached to an IV like him, you need to rest. I’ll be here. Besides, he won’t wake up before afternoon. Betsy?”

“I won’t allow more than one person here during the day,” she stated.

“I’ll be around then,” Parker said and went out.

Nate’s apartment was only ten minutes’ drive from here. And Orion would need food very soon. They were right. If she wanted to be here as much as she could, she had to sleep, and now was the best time, while he was still drugged and unaware of anything. What she wanted to do was curl up beside him… but Betsy would kill her.

“You’ll be here?” she asked reluctantly. “If he wakes up…”

“He won’t wake up alone,” Sophie said gently. “Go.”

So she left, only stopping by the bed for two seconds. She felt their eyes on her back so she just touched his fingers, once, and hurried out.

The moment she left the building her phone started chirping again – real life was waiting for her, slamming into her in the first step outside. The bubble was cracked, and the hole in it was spreading, just like the crack Eliot made in the stage replica; very soon, it would shatter into thousand pieces and disappear. She stopped. The rain on her face was cold.

Nobody looked at the small woman in too-large blue coveralls. She put the phone in her pocket – everything would wait until she woke up – and then she remembered she had no money, no IDs, no credit cards and no keys.

Thug life sucked.

She returned to wake up Hardison to give her keys and money for a taxi. She snatched an umbrella in the lobby on her way out, with ease and style, avoided a few cops that wandered there, though without any reason, and stole a cap from a teenager busy with his iPod.

She might’ve been ruined for good… but she would enjoy it while it lasted.

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***

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This time, waking up was real. Eliot counted nausea, disorientation, pain and dizziness, already tired of the same old shit he knew awaited him. He slowly recounted everything that happened after the tunnels – small bits of conversations, Betsy, his old room… the messy cacophony in his head slowly cleared out.

“Betsy said you might wake up soon,” Sophie said, somewhere near, so he opened his eyes.

Her smile flashed. Light, careless, her true smile. One side of her face was lit by the window. From the south-west. It was afternoon. He hoped it was just one day after the PVA.

“Betsy went home, but Janice and Rosalie made sure that one of them is always here, they adjusted their shifts. That’s so nice of them.” He couldn’t say if she was mocking him, but he had no strength to ask her anything.

Trying to speak with the mask, with a dry mouth and aching throat, was almost impossible. He did try to say something, but the sound that escaped him was something dangerously close to a moan.

“I’ll call Janice,” Sophie got up, leaving the magazine she was reading, and went out before he could protest. An involuntary move of his hand pulled on the IVs, stretched something very painful in his wrist, and reflected up through newly discovered cuts. Fuck, he felt as if someone put him through a garbage disposal, and collected him into a bucket.

Sophie returned with Janice before he was even able to start inventorying all the injuries. He eyed the nurse, very carefully, but she brought no whips. Yet, she wasn’t smiling either, not even when she removed his mask to give him water. He didn’t have to pretend he was drifting away, unable to speak, while she was busy around him.

It took a great effort to open his eyes again when he heard the door closing after the nurse. The mix of drugs made every move a struggle. He thought about ten questions he had to ask Sophie, and when he finally managed to focus on her, all of them simply evaporated from his brain.

Sophie lowered the railings on his left side and sat on the bed; he had to stop twitching. She was too close now. He let them enter his personal space all the time, but now, in this shitty state, the instinctive reaction was to hiss at her to move away.

“Charming as usual,” she pulled back a little, avoiding wires and tubes. “But get used to this. No escape now.”

He listened to her voice, deeper than usual; her eyes were huge, gentle, full of…shit, she looked like she was about to start crying. He eyed her the same way he eyed Janice, as a potential threat. Sophie knew hugging wasn’t an option, she most definitely wouldn’t dare to kiss him, but messing with his hair and patting him were almost certain at this point.

“What happened?” he tried to say it quickly, but the words came out as a raspy whisper.

At least, it did stop her hand on its way to his face. “Everything went as planned, nothing to worry about.”

“Others?”

“Ah. Others,” she sighed. “Nate is still sleeping, as you should be now, it’s not yet time for you to wake up. So I expect you’ll just turn off in the middle of the conversation. He’ll be fine, but he’ll have to stay here a day or two, until they run all the tests and see how he is doing. Hardison is alright, busy with his toys. He can walk around, but he stays in bed, still working on the details that Bonnano needs. Parker wasn’t coping so well – she spent the night aimlessly wandering around. I presume she’s now sleeping somewhere in the hospital. Florence was here the entire night; she’s okay. I sent her home to sleep a few hours, and prepare for all the paper work she has to do before she leaves.”

He wondered if she accidentally mentioned her leaving last, so those words stayed in the air between them longer than the rest of her speech.

“Don Lazzara?” He avoided that attempt to feel his emotional temperature. He was having too much trouble keeping himself awake, fighting the drugs, he had to keep this as simple as possible.

“Arrested, facing multiple murder charges.”

“Anything…” _that could bite them in the ass, lead to them, put them in any kind of danger_? He couldn’t make his mind cooperate. “… wrong?” he finished.

“You. You’re in a nasty mess, and this time you’re staying here as long as it takes.”

He waved her answer off impatiently, pissed off because all that fog messed up his thinking. When bolts of pain went through his arm after that, he stopped a hiss and gritted his teeth. No, this wasn’t a confirmation of her words… this was just a temporary nuisance, just like after every other fight. It _was_ supposed to hurt, so why make a big deal out of it?

“You won’t try to escape this time?” she asked. “You know you have to stay here now, right?”

He fought the fog; every move of his eyes was an attempt to stop them from closing, so he just nodded. Even that was exhausting.

“Do you need anything, sweetie?” she smiled again.

That _sweetie_ announced cooing and made him wince inwardly. Yes, it was wonderful to see her smile so relaxed and calm, finally – that gave him all the answers he needed. But at the same time, it was maddening. She was too elusive for him, he could never understand her ability to be a plain reckless and attention-deprived _woman_ … and the next moment turn into a deadly precise mind-reading machine.

No chance to avoid her quick fingers that went through his hair, moving it off of his face.

He glared.

She made a soft, giggly sound. He heard that sort of noise when women gathered and hovered over cribs. Dear God, he was pinned to the bed, the glare wasn’t working, he was still too drugged to chase her away with words, and his options were none to zero.

There was still one, last thing to do… he stopped fighting to stay awake, and she, and those awful sounds, sank into the darkness.

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***

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Poking at his hand brought him back to reality. Parker’s face was lit from almost the same angle as Sophie’s was, so he was out about half an hour. Did Betsy tell them to wake him up, and why?

This time, waking up went faster, without the disorientation and nausea.

“Why are you here, Parker?” he rasped. At least he was able to speak.

She brought her legs up on his bed, barely missing the tubes, and grinned. “Because I slept with Hardison.”

He took one deep, deep breath, and almost fainted when his lungs screamed in agony.

This was Parker, he reminded himself, slowly deciphering her smile. Yes, that was it. She was here because she slept in Hardison’s _bed_ , so she didn’t have to go home to sleep, she wasn’t tired.

He managed to exhale, slowly. “Okay,” he said. “And again, _why_ are you here?”

“Because Sophie's with Nate and Hardison now.”

So, they were making sure he was under surveillance all the time, they worked in shifts. “I’m not going anywhere. You don’t have to-”

“George said we shouldn’t listen to anything you say, because you’ll tell everybody you’re staying, and use the first chance to get away when we stop monitoring you.” She pointed to his right side, to the cupboard. George was smirking at him in the best Nate-Ford-being-obnoxious way. Not _again_. He almost growled at him that he better remember what happened here the last time, but stopped himself. Drugged or not, he decided to remain the only sane person in this room.

“And why would I go away if all of you are still here?” he asked slowly. Fuck, every damn thing he did, said or thought was _slow_.

Her brow crinkled. “Good point.”

She continued to stare at him.

He tried to faint as he did with Sophie. No luck. The anesthesia was wearing off, as it was supposed to do, and his mind was working. Pathetically _slow_ , but working.

“Nate woke up,” Parker said after a while. “We all think he'll be the first to try escaping from here, and Sophie is pissed off. She snapped at Hardison when he joked that we should bet which one of you will go first.”

“Tell him to put money on Nate. I’m staying here.”

She looked at George, then at him.

He had to remind himself that even a normal sigh wasn’t such a clever idea, and rolling his eyes would be disastrous in this still floating state of mind.

“Janice said we should let you sleep as much as we can, and not bother you with talking.”

“That’s an excellent idea, Parker.”

She continued to watch him.

He closed his eyes, deciding to concentrate on his injuries and assessing his general state, but the drugs made that tricky. Deep throbbing all over was one, nasty pain that spread. Maybe if he counted the parts that didn’t hurt, it would go faster. One ankle. Three square inches on his back. One knee. And that was pretty much all. His _hair_ hurt.

But knowing that Parker would just continue with this, hurt his brain the most. He needed silence and to be alone to get it together, and not this, this… siege. Trying to relax with her eyes glued to his face was an impossible mission. If he pressed the button to call a nurse, Janice would come, and he still hadn’t decided what to do with the two of them, what tactics he would use. Keeping a low profile until his head cleared was the best course of action for now.

Closing his eyes was a good choice, because after a few minutes Parker stood up, as silent as a ghost. He had trouble tracking her walking all over the room, her steps were so light – but the click of the door knob was unmistakably clear. Yet, it was too early to celebrate, the door remained open longer than it would take her to go out.

“Is he sleeping?” Hardison whispered.

“Nope. Inwardly whining. Poke him.” With that, the door closed.

Leaving Hardison on the wrong side of it. He sighed – very carefully and shallow – and opened his eyes.

Hardison took Parker’s place. It was good, for a change, to see someone who was as slow as he was; the hacker moved carefully, sparing his arm, dressed in a hospital gown.

“You look terrible.”

“You know, I just realized that the Chileans weren’t the main reason…” he stopped, and bit back a curse. He still couldn’t get enough air for a longer sentence, “…for all that hospital hide and seek last time. I knew you would’ve annoyed the hell out of me.” The mask muffled his words and he pulled it off – only to have it over his face again when Hardison put it back.

“Keep that thing there,” the hacker said sternly. He pushed a phone in his hand that moved to tear that damn thing in nine pieces, stopping him. His coordination was still lousy. “I chose the model, and put everything you had on your silver phone in this one. It’s even silver again. I’ll bring you a laptop and a tablet tomorrow. Anything else you need?”

He watched him while he talked. Hardison didn’t look at him squarely, his eyes were downwards.

“You to stop sulking,” he said.

“I’m not sulking,” Hardison growled. “I’m pissed off.”

“Because of what? Doing the only logical and clever thing to do? It worked.”

“It might not. You might end up dead – and you almost did. Had enough of that shit, you hear me?”

“Well, you tried the same thing – and I’m not pissed off at you.”

“Not the same, there’s a difference. I would be hidden and-”

“It’s the same shit. Only difference is that I succeeded in staying behind. That’s all. Now stop.” He closed his eyes, this time not because he wanted him to leave, but because he had to. Talking, so soon after waking up, was more demanding with every spoken word. Dizziness returned in a nasty wave and darkness whirled under his eyelids.

“You’re lucky you’re so shitty,” Hardison grumbled.

 _Or else, what_? He didn’t say that, though. Arguing with Hardison about that nonsense was the last thing on his mind.

“You’re expected to be sleeping. Janice said, that Betsy said, that Sciortino said – or something like that – that they’ll keep you sedated through this first phase, a day or two. And it won’t be morphine this time, they’ll give you something else, because of, well, because you know what. Thought you’d like to know that.”

Oh, a heads-up. He opened one eye and studied the hacker. He _was_ still sulking, but nothing more than after their usual bickering. “You bet on me, right, so you’re trying to protect your investment?” he asked lightly.

“Nobody wanted to bet,” Hardison huffed. “I’m just sparing you some time. I know you’ll do that leaving all over again, so it’s better to speed it up so we can all rest after this is finished. I had enough of watching you screwing the hospital policies. And equipment. And personnel, pardon my French.”

“You really enjoy the sound of your voice, don’t you?”

“Hey, hey, being all broken isn’t excuse to be sarcastic – and you surely ain’t gonna make me leave. We’ll keep you company – that was how this was supposed to be when the first shit happened. No more being alone in the hospital. Ever.”

Just great. Drugged and kept in bed by force, unable to leave, surrounded with people who would talk endlessly, and stare at him, and coo over him – jumping through the window looked like the best idea in ages.

“And don’t look so desperate – everybody agreed we won’t annoy you more than we annoy you usually.”

Right, that was an improvement.

The problem with being drugged for two days – something he could endure easily, he needed the rest more than oxygen – was that his time frame wasn’t adjusted to the hospital one. He didn’t have time for being out. He didn’t have time. Period.

And he couldn’t ask Hardison a direct question, not when he wasn’t in the best shape for putting his guard up. “Where’s everybody?” he asked with an even voice.

“ _Everybody_ sent a message, asking if you’re still knocked out – she stayed at home this afternoon arranging all the meetings for tomorrow. The CBS people are ready for the contract to be signed, but she has to gather her lawyers and associates to prepare for negotiating. And she has interviews that she can’t refuse.” Hardison’s grin went into almost perfect innocence. “And, she said she’ll be here in an hour.”

The smug bastard.

“You might want to check your Facebook chaos,” Hardison nudged the phone that he held. “Reactions are, well, interesting. And as soon as Nate gets up – he's threatening to do that tomorrow, so that means he’ll walk tonight as soon as Sophie goes home – we’ll have an official post-job briefing.”

“You can leave?”

“Yep, Betsy said I can decide on my own.”

“So why don’t you all simply go away?”

Hardison’s eyebrows went up; he rolled his eyes and shook his head at the same time, a scene that sent nausea through him just because he saw it.

“You’re a special kind of stupid, aren’t you? Anyway, Janice said to call her when I leave the room, and that I had only a few minutes. Do you need anything?”

A car. And clothes. “Nope, nothing.”

“Send me a message if you change your mind. I’m ten meters down the hall.”

With that, Hardison left. He had only one minute of normal thinking before Janice showed up and he sank back into the careful low profile, pretending he was half-sleeping. She clanged around him, and he heard her writing something, while he tried to remember what exactly he did to her, and what to Rosalie. It was too blurry a memory; he was too exhausted to think about it.

The fact was, he wanted to sleep. No, worse, he _needed_ it, badly. Yet, he knew he would have time for it later, as much as he wanted.

Hardison was wrong. The mix of drugs she connected to his IV had morphine in it, along with that strange thing that they used when he went into hyperventilation the last time – the elephant tranquilizer, he called it. At least half of it was well known substances, and it helped. The other half was something that knocked him down… but didn’t knock him out completely.

He still had enough strength left to wait, and wait, swimming in the tar pit again, until one small, warm hand took his and whispered.

No words. Just the sound of her voice, the scent of her skin. But that was enough.

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*

 

%MCEPASTEBIN%


	69. Chapter 69

 

Chapter 69

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***

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She had talked to Jethro. She booked a plane ticket. She arranged meetings, contracts and interviews, and did two most important ones. It was awkward to answer questions about the PVA, and season six, and smile, as if that was the most important thing in the world. She called the services to finally fix and secure the door of her apartment, and she packed all her things from Nate’s apartment. The day flew by.

And all of that faded when she arrived at the hospital. She spent the night sitting with him, and dozing in the chair.

Betsy took another night shift, but they didn’t talk at all, except short whispered sentences when she came to visit him.

Florence planned to be there until morning, then go home to sleep a few hours, and prepare for a busy day; she had to push everything into a very tight time frame. Her time was ticking. _Their_ time was ticking.

It was rainy, gray dawn when Betsy arrived again, but this time an unknown nurse was with her.

“Go get a coffee, dear, we need five minutes,” Betsy said quietly.

It was a very polite throwing her out, but she couldn’t say no. They waited, not moving, until she closed the door behind her. She sneaked through the empty, silent corridor, to peek into room 302.

Sophie and Parker went home during the night, and Hardison and Nate were alone. She expected to see a dark room and the two of them in their beds.

Nate was sitting in the chair in front of the window. The curtains were open, and the blinds pulled up, revealing the gray sky. He turned around when he heard her, and she couldn’t just silently close the door and go away.

“Couldn’t sleep?” she whispered, moving closer, careful not to wake Hardison up.

“Slept during the day. Too much,” he said. He sounded okay, but she couldn’t clearly see how he looked. He was wrapped in the blanket from the bed, that hid the sling supporting his injured arm. Betsy said it was normal to feel cold after such a blood loss.

She lowered herself into the chair next to him, and looked at the pale sky.

Only one lone blackbird disturbed their silence, clear notes coming from the trees across the street. She slowed her twitching nerves and relaxed.

“Dawns are cold and distant,” he said after a while. “Especially dawns in hospitals. Always reminding humans how insignificant they are, how small. The day is coming. And there’s nothing you can do about it.”

There was something in his voice that sent a shiver crawling over her skin.

“Are you okay?” she blurted out. She watched his profile, blurred by dim light. He kept his eyes on the sky.

“Yes, why? I’m sitting. Betsy said I’ll walk almost normally tomorrow. I’m fine.”

“She threw me out. She’s doing something with him.”

He glanced at her briefly. “I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about,” he said. “He’s doing fine. No complications for now, and his progress is linear. The internal bleeding stopped, and he is recovering.”

“He was out the entire day yesterday. Night is almost over, we are going into the second day, and he only twice noticed I’m here.”

“No need to panic before the third day,” he said with a small smile. “He is just completely exhausted. Don’t forget that even if nothing had happened, he would’ve slept for days after the PVA.”

“I know, but…” she bit her lip and stopped. Nate wasn’t a person who would comfort someone just for comfort’s sake. “I know.”

“But?” he smiled.

“Your, your… other jobs. Is it like this one every time? How you recover from it? How can you sleep without nightmares?” She hunched under his eyes. “Is it worth it?” she finished with a whisper.

“This one was nasty. Our jobs usually don’t involve hospitals. You are not a part of this world – though you’re coping with it better than I thought you would. It will pass. With time.”

“Is it worth it, Nate?” she repeated her question, waving her hand around them, at the hospital, at _them_ all.

His eyes fell on her again. “Absolutely,” he breathed. “When you have the power to make things right, to outweigh injustice… you can’t stop.”

“Doing good for the sake of the good,” she whispered. “Remember how I joked the first night about giving you my firstborn to pay for your help? Are you aware that even that would be too low a price? What can I… how can I ever…”

“You did,” he stopped her. “You paid this off, Florence.”

“What?”

“We needed this job. I thought it was too early to do anything. I was wrong. You came just in time.” He paused, turning his head again to the window. “You needed us, and we needed you.”

“Oh.” She knew what he implied. But what good could this crazy love affair possibly bring Eliot? She would hurt him – she was doing it already – and her soul ached. She had said to Sophie she would never do anything to hurt him. And the grifter said it was already too late for that. She loathed this mess, this desperate pain she brought on both of them.

“I hate this,” she said. “And I don’t know what to do.”

“Ah, you know.”

She glanced at his profile, grateful he was sparing her of eye contact. He’d been scaring her, from the beginning, in a way Eliot never could. But now, a sharp edge she always felt in him eased, and she realized she wasn’t fidgeting around him. Maybe being up to her elbows in his blood changed her perspective – or it was just this sleepy dawn that covered them both in the same pale light.

“And _because_ you know, you hate this. You have to leave. You know that, he knows that.”

“There should be a rule for this: never make life-changing decisions while suffering from shell shock,” she said lightly, to balance the weight on her heart. “I’m in the crying-every-five-minutes phase again.”

He shifted uncomfortably; ah, women and feelings, she realized. She reached the maximum of his open-and-caring ability, and pushing further wouldn’t be clever. She regretted it wasn’t Hardison that was awake. The hacker would talk to her without any problem.

But she could talk to Hardison any time she wanted, and this moment with Nate would never return. She was grateful for this chance of quiet sitting together. When she returned from New Zealand, in about three months, it would be different. That thought stirred all troubles that whirled inside her. If she was lucky, she would be able to meet them again, meet Eliot again, without this, this…love.

“What?” Nate asked.

She smiled, shaking off the feeling of _ending_ , knowing her eyes were filling again.

The door opened before she could think what to say. Betsy with two cups of coffee.

“Not clever, and not allowed,” she said giving one cup to Nate. “But you look like you need this. By the way, I’ll have a word with Patrick. I found a bottle of Jack under your pillow.”

“Busted,” Nate waved to his cupboard where she saw a few different bottles. “Orange juice is okay to drink? Even when Hardison overdoses on it?”

“Anything but alcohol.”

Betsy turned to her then, giving her the second cup. She sat on the small cupboard near them. “His bleeding stopped a few hours ago,” the nurse said. “There’s no need for a chest tube anymore, so we removed it. It went faster this time – no pneumothorax, no air in his lungs, and that’s a good thing. And that isn’t a good thing, at the same time.”

“Why?” Hundreds of potential complications whirled through her mind; Betsy was stern.

“Because it would be very difficult to keep him here,” Nate said. “Not that a chest tube stopped him before… but.”

“But. Precisely. Do something while you’re here.” Betsy nodded, then looked at her. “You, too. Talk to him. Be here. He might listen to you.”

Oh. How could Betsy know anything about them? She wasn’t in the apartment the last three days… or two. She couldn’t know…

“I’m leaving. Tomorrow,” her voice fell into whisper. “And I’m not coming back for a long time.” Another wave of self-loathing rushed over her when she lowered her eyes to not look at Betsy. He almost died for her. Several times. And now she was leaving him, barely alive, in the damn hospital. He did his job, right, he saved her life, her job, her future, so he wasn’t useful anymore. She feared, if she met Betsy’s eyes, she would read exactly that in that velvet darkness. The tears blurred the cup in her hands… but the ring on her finger shone brightly through that veil.

Nate pretended he wasn’t there.

Whatever she did, it would be wrong. That fact sat heavily on her heart. She couldn’t choose – wasn’t in a position to choose – and she had to leave him behind, leaving a part of her soul with him.

She raised her head – but Betsy’s eyes weren’t full of despise. She watched her silently, with something close to sorrowful understanding.

“I’ll talk to him while I’m here,” Florence said. “And I’ll try to be here as much as I can. I’ll go now, while he still sleeps, and return as soon as I finish with everything. But why are you so sure he wouldn’t stay?”

“Because he never recovers in public,” Nate said. “Too complicated to explain, just trust us.”

“Okay, battle plan,” Betsy said. “Today is the second day. He’ll wake up and start plotting – he was doing his recon from the first moment, even during the surgery, and now he will have enough info for everything. He is suspiciously… obedient. I don’t like it.”

“What? He is drugged and sleeping!” she snapped at her. Identical smirks showed on Nate’s and Betsy’s face.

“Yeah, drugged and sleeping like an angel,” the nurse said. “Seen that shit before. He didn’t ask you to bring him anything… like paper, a pen, perhaps a mirror?”

“No, he didn’t- what? A mirror? He hasn’t woke up the entire night! That’s not normal, no matter how exhausted he is – was. Are you hiding something from me?!”

“Hold your claws, little chicken.”

She gasped, but Betsy smiled. “At least stop jumping around. Listen, I know what I’m talking about… and Nate does. It’s not in his nature to take everything we give him without a word. Janice and Rosalie said he isn’t reacting to them at all – and they’re disappointed. They wanted to see what he would try next.”

“This time he would go directly at the weakest spot,” Nate said. “People. They have no idea. When he moves – and he _will_ move – they won’t know what hit them, no matter how warned and ready they are.”

She looked at them in turns, annoyed. This was ridiculous. He woke up two times during the night, and he was so heavily sedated that he only had the strength to smile at her.

“When he messed up his stitches after the sniper, he told me he had to stretch his strength until we finished with the PVA, and after that, he would be done,” she said. “Done, as in no strength for anything, a complete shutdown. That’s happening right now, and plus, he is sedated. It’s not fair to accuse him of, of… plotting anything, when he simply can’t do that.”

They smirked again.

“When you return to 304,” Betsy continued, “don’t try to wake him up, he needs to sleep. If our luck holds, he’ll sleep most of the day.” She got up. “Call me if you need anything.”

She left them alone after that.

“Go home now,” Nate said almost gently, a tone that she heard for the first time. “Sleep, and do your things. You have to finish The Season Six Job – without that all of this would be in vain.”

“I just want to be here,” she sighed.

“I know. But you can’t. Go.”

“Will you… can you be there with him?”

His smile disappeared. “Yeah, I’ll go sit with him,” he said after a second, “until Betsy throws me out, or Sophie or Parker come. Before you leave… pour me a juice, will you?”

Even before she opened a bottle of orange soda, she knew what would be in it – Nate Ford couldn’t be _busted_ , just like that. Not even by Betsy.

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***

.

When Sophie arrived, she found Hardison giggling with Janice and Rosalie, flashing charm and brilliant smiles at them at warp speed. They were warm, caring people – no one else would fall for Eliot’s little game, anyway – and they couldn’t hide it for long. Hardison had the means to relax them and pull them out of their witch roles they played around Eliot. But just when she heard what he was telling them – how Eliot made him marzipan frogs, while all weak and recovering – she knew he was preparing ground work.

Hardison was ready to go, but he was the only one that had no problems with being in the hospital. A delivery boy brought him a laptop and a few more shiny thingies, and the nurses helped him unpack them. He used that opportunity to tell them a few funny stories about Eliot’s lumbering on the internet, and how he had send ducks for Betsy… and of course, the two of them were also on Farmville, and happened to be friends with him there via Betsy.

Sophie hid a smile and left them in peace.

Nate was in 304.

Her heart fluttered a little when she saw him sitting by the bed, with coffee and whiskey he hid from Betsy. His entire posture revealed his rigidness; he stared sightlessly into the floor, avoiding everything else in the room.

She turned on the TV, quietly, to add a new noise to all the hisses and chirps of medical equipment.

His shoulders were stiff and knotted when she put her hands on him, leaning in to put a quick kiss on his cheek. “Still sleeping?” she whispered. “Anything new?”

“Yes, and no. They hit him with a new dose, they are changing the mixture every time. Betsy knows about his calculations, and she won’t let him fight it again. And figure it out, again.”

She glanced at Eliot. Lowered blinds kept the room in cozy half-darkness, but she could see he looked better. More alive. The thing that scared her the most during yesterday was the lethargy of his immobility. Now, though he was still simply lying there, there was a certain tonus of his body that changed. He felt more present, not just like empty shell of a man. He filled himself.

Betsy wasn’t the only one who could read his heartbeat, all of them were finely tuned to it, after all those long hours when they’d brought him home, when they waited to see if he would live. He wasn’t awake, pretending to sleep.

Nate knew it too, he didn’t try to lower his voice.

“Florence left?” she asked.

“Early in the morning. She’s coming apart at the seams. You’ll have to do something.”

“Of course.” No. Florence needed to go through every damn feeling alone, without any help, without anybody whom she could talk to – that was the only, though the hardest way, to really know where she stood, and what she felt.

Sophie had more important things to solve. A delicate spider web she’d been spinning all around had to be closed and tightened. Today. When her fly was too weak and drugged to escape, but still able to participate.

“And how are you?” she asked lightly, sitting beside Nate in another chair.

“Fine.” A twitch escaped him along with an attempt to smile; he noticed it immediately and shrugged with his good shoulder. “No, I _am_ fine. More than I thought I would be.”

She said nothing. He finished his juice and put the cup away. She could tell how much whiskey was in it just by the level of relaxation in his muscles. For now, it didn’t even brighten his eyes. But she felt it brighten hers instead – just watching that face under the mess of ruffled hair, alerted by a hostile surrounding, and so lousy in his tries to hide it.

“Janice and Rosalie are busy with Hardison. We can try to sneak out, go to the park around the building.”

“It’s raining,” he pointed out. “And I had had enough of the Mass Gen complex. We all know every step of it, and I have no wish to study it again. I’m fine here.”

When his eyes swiveled to Eliot again, she bit her lip and remained silent. It was one thing to watch over him while he was in the apartment, it put that into another context, other surroundings. But here, in the hospital room, it woke up all the demons. Nate was the only one of them who didn’t enter this room the last time – they all sneaked in to see him. He set foot in the room only when Eliot was gone, to check the things he had left.

His presence here, now, was the biggest thing he could give him. And the hardest to give, too. Much harder than anything he had done for him until now.

But Nate’s job with Eliot’s recovery was over. It was healing time now, and that was her field.

“He’ll be fine,” she said. He looked at her. He knew she wasn’t talking about Eliot’s wounds.

“I think we made a full circle,” he said quietly. “And we came out of it alive… and much less broken than I thought we would be.”

“It’s not done yet,” she smiled. “It will be when we all leave Mass Gen.” She got up and reached out her hand. “Come. We’ll go down the corridor and find some fire exit. I want to listen to the rain.”

He got up, slow and careful, but he looked at Eliot and hesitated.

“He is my job now, Nate,” she whispered.

His eyes widened. For a moment he looked like he would say something, but he just smirked instead, taking her hand and tucking it under his arm. She guided him out, slowly, glancing at him to see if she walked too fast.

Maybe she shouldn’t make him walk… but his eyes lost that haunted edge, and that was all that mattered.

.

.

.

***

.

Eliot knew he would’ve had an enormous problem if he was fed this particular cocktail when he had to get out of here the last time. A muscle relaxant did horrors to his coordination. His mind would be clearer, but he wouldn’t be able to get out of the room. He would spend hours bumping into the edges, trying to go through the open door.

He was half sitting now – an effort that pushed him to the edge of a blind rage, not because it was painful, but because it was a struggle. Damn sure he was collected in a bucket after the grinder… and he reconnected his limbs the wrong way, and without the nerves that should command them. Judging by the fifteen minute attempt to sit, he was missing a few bones as well, especially supporting ones.

When he tried to pull the oxygen mask from his face, to test his breathing, he almost blinded himself. His fingers slid over the mask and ended up in his eyes, and he hissed breathless curses in three languages.

Why the fuck did nobody think about how huge a security risk this was?

Trying to get up and stand was out of the question now. He was still too weak, and with this shit going through his veins, he could expect his legs to buckle under his weight.

George snickered. Constantly. For hours.

Parker cackled too, which was expected, but no less annoying. She was there when he woke up. Her slurping woke him. She held a huge paper cup of something awfully pink, and she played with the straw, making bubbles.

Why the hell couldn't they give him some happy pills, instead of this stuff that made him squishier than a medusa left on the beach? The most perfidious revenge he could imagine.

His attempt to get a cup of water from the cupboard ended in three misses – three of Parker’s cackles, and of course she offered no help – and with spilling water all over because when he finally caught the cup and took it, his fingers relaxed and it slipped.

If George could roll over in his pot, his roots would be over his leaves at this point.

Even the TV laughed at him; an audience of some talk show giggled at something that the host said.

“You look thirsty,” Parker said. Then slurped again. “I can give you a new cup, if you promise you’ll teach me how to shoot.”

“Go away, Parker,” he growled. The mask hid his breathlessness, made it sound ominous. “Told ya once, and ain’t repeating it – not gonna happen. I’m done with shooting.”

“Cool. I’m not.”

“No.”

She made bubbles, watching him over the straw. She chose the wrong time for puppy eyes.

“No. Why the hell do you want that at all?”

“So the next time I have to shoot at you, I won’t accidentally kill you.”

“Stop that crap – nobody ain’t shooting at anybody.”

“You can’t know that.”

“Yes, I can. Finished chapter. No guns. And no grenades, ya hear me?”

“What about bazookas?” she asked, still hidden behind the cup, only her eyes were steady on him.

He gave up on reaching anything on the cupboard, and sighed. “What about bazookas, Parker?” He asked patiently, putting his hands in his lap.

“She said that a bazooka is the only thing that could kill you. Shot twice.”

Ah, so that explained that bazooka thing that they mentioned once before.

“No,” he said sternly. At least he tried to – he suspected he sounded a little slurred. A few sources of pain were missing today, as if this drug numbed random spots on his body. It numbed his fingers for sure. He looked at the useless tentacles, cut, bruised and swollen; some of them wrapped up, and covered with an antibiotic cream. Maybe the cup slipped because of the cream?

Parker hovered over him in a second, and he missed her coming closer. She put a cup of water in his right hand and wrapped his fingers around it, then took his left and repeated the process, while he sat stupefied. He was so slow that he could only acknowledge her actions, one second after she did it, unable to react. To do anything but growl lowly. If he'd been fed this drug the last time, he would be dead – the Chilean redhead killer would kill him like a rabbit.

“You’re cute when you’re mad,” she said.

“Yeah, Parker, I’m about to get really adorable.”

Of course she didn’t notice the warning. “Do you want a straw, or can you hold it and lift it?” she said, an innocence pouring out of her eyes.

“I want you to go away,” he hissed.

“Good idea,” she chirped.

And left. Leaving him with a cup full of water in his lap, clutched with both hands. And the mask still on his face.

He beat the morphine pump, he could solve this. No matter that he felt gelatinous and smudged all over the bed. No matter that his grip was as firm as Hardison’s gummy frogs.

He _had_ to solve this, because he couldn’t let go of the cup to press a button to call the nurses. George offered a few pieces of advice, but the evil bastard was leading him into disaster – every advice had a hidden trap, and listening to him would end in spilling this shit all over himself. He ignored his ominous snickers – the plant’s good mood was extremely annoying.

He concentrated on increasing his grip with his right hand, releasing the left one. In the moment he managed to reach for the mask, Florence said, “Yes, that would be the general plan.”

He missed the mask and poked himself in the bruise beneath his left eye, completely disorientated. For a one long, long moment he thought he was hallucinating again, though the amount of morphine in this mix wasn’t too high; that was the only explanation for hearing her voice when he was positive she didn’t enter the room. He would notice _that_. But who knew what nasty stuff they brewed into his IV, as far as he knew they could've put him on LSD. He took one deep breath – nothing hurt, good – and then saw her face, smiling at him. From the TV. The reality was too fast, and his thinking couldn’t catch up. Okay, the TV… this was an interview. Probably a live one.

And there was that dazzling smile again.

She looked gorgeous in a dark brown suit that lightened her brown eyes and gave them a liquid amber glaze. He remembered the same eyes from the night before, lit with a small light, teary and soft. But he didn’t remember _this_ voice – no babbling, just the pure professionalism of a woman who sailed the business waters with ease, knowing how and what to say. She explained her plans thoroughly; her leaving tomorrow for three months in New Zealand, then returning to the US and starting work on the new season with her crew of writers in Los Angeles, preparing for the beginning of shooting in the next few months… She gave a short, funny description of the PVA ceremony, talked about her dress, the other dresses – and he had no idea when and how she saw any of them – and she managed to be competent and adorable at the same time. No wonder the press liked her, even though she was just a writer.

Their worlds were too far apart. But if she stayed, he would make it work. He knew how, what to do to leave the dangers of his life behind and keep her secure. It wouldn’t be easy, but it would be worth it.

He sat immobile, staring at the TV that already had something else on, going thoroughly through the all necessary steps and precautions. Paranoia was a great thing, sometimes – there wasn’t any kind of threat that he couldn’t anticipate and react to.

He had no idea how much time had passed before he finished the complete security scan and check of every possible outcome, before he made their life – separated by their jobs, but still together – possible. Safe houses, meeting points, travel, private jets, new IDs and all the security checks – they could be together almost one week every month, even when she was six months in L.A., and nobody would notice anything.

At that point it already hurt too much. It wasn’t hope that stirred all the pain, no, he knew there was maybe a one percent chance that she would decide to stay with him, she simply couldn’t do that – it was just the damn possibility. It would be easier if he knew it couldn’t work.

The cup was forgotten in his hands. He didn’t raise his head to look at George, he knew he would see pity in his eyes. The plant was silent.

.

.

.

***

.

When Hardison and Sophie came, he let out one small sigh of relief. That showed him, more than the cut in his heart, that he was in bad shape, when the annoying presence of _people_ was something to be welcomed.

This mixture of drugs had one unpleasant side effect. The painkillers in it seemed to wear off, slowly but steadily, while the relaxant still held him in its grip. It would be a good starting point in his calculations, if he had any intention of doing that all over again. Which he didn’t. No time for that, for sure.

“A new laptop for you,” Hardison announced, putting a shiny thing on his knees. “So you can play your little pumpkin field again. It would be wise to send gifts around, you neglected all your connections at Farmville. Be charming. And there’re many articles to read, all about the drama on the PVA, and M7 – the world is buzzing.”

Right, the buzzing world was exactly what he needed right now. He had enough buzzing in his own head. He noticed that Hardison was dressed up.

“You’re allowed to leave?”

“Yep, going home. Unless you want me to stay. I can make you an account and introduce you to the fine world of WOW, now that you’re nerdy enough to play small games- but mind my words, I didn’t say you’re geeky enough, you ain’t a geek yet, maybe-”

“Stop. No games. No gnomes. That’s over.” Why the hell did nobody notice he was still holding the cup? He glanced over at Sophie who sat in the chair under the window, watching them both with a small, thoughtful smile. It was strange the grifter didn’t see his problem. He returned his eyes to the hacker who watched him thoughtfully.

“Are you drinking that?” Hardison asked finally.

“Do I look like- no, not now. Take it away.”

He barely felt the cup being removed. He leaned back into the pillows and closed his eyes, suddenly tired to the bone. His mind was empty, and his brain hurt.

“I’ll come see you tomorrow,” Hardison said. He took the laptop and put it away. “Keep you some company.”

“Yeah, sure, you do that,” he said not opening his eyes. He wouldn’t be here tomorrow. The door opened and closed.

He wanted to sleep, to erase his mind and stop thinking and dull the pain, but Sophie was still there. An endless chatter, theater news, shoes news, all of that waited to be poured on him, and there was no proper preparation for that sort of torture. He doubted he would be able to faint now.

But one minute passed and she said nothing.

He carefully opened one eye and peeked at her. The grifter was sitting comfortably, turned sideways in the chair, with her feet on the other one. She had a magazine in her hands, and she paid no attention to him.

That was good. He could live with a silent watch.

He relaxed again and tried to concentrate on the dark side of his eyelids, slowly taking away thought after thought, replacing them with a void. The quiet chatter of the TV voices merged with the sounds around him, being no disturbance.

But he didn’t hear one sound: the turning of magazine pages.

He opened his eyes, irritation ruining all his efforts to calm down and sleep. She didn’t move, still seemingly reading, and he couldn’t focus his blurry vision enough to see if she just stared sightlessly into the paper, or she read it with concentration.

“Soph,” he called, and waited until she turned to him. “Can you give me some water, please?”

“Of course.” He watched her movements while she approached, searching for any restraining motions; yes, she walked carefully and little slower than usual, but nothing to be worried about. She was fine, physically.

She searched the cupboard and found a straw, and even removed his mask without any question. Now he only had to raise the cup a little, with both hands, and pray he wouldn’t stab his eye with the straw. He waited until she moved to return to her place, and carefully took some water. It did wonders for his sore throat, and he almost felt human again.

“Is something wrong?” he asked, stopping her mid-step. “Nate's okay?”

She glanced at him. “In the middle of a staring contest with Parker. And losing. She’s relentless.” She smiled while saying that, but that smile never reached her eyes.

He watched her over the cup the same way Parker watched him before, hoping he concealed the sinking feeling in his gut. He wasn’t in the best shape to talk to her – but there would be no time tomorrow. He was leaving. Putting off unfinished things, for some better time, never brought any good.

“Talk to me,” he said softly.

She flinched, and her smile disappeared. But she returned one step and sat on the bed, as far from him as she could.

He could talk, now, about That Night, without any flashbacks or panic attacks. Or at least he hoped so… his belly was chilled. The drugs didn’t help, either. She had told him that something _she_ did bothered her, and he was pretty sure she was talking about her phone call. He could recall with a painful clarity her every word, the acid in her voice. It had cut him deep, though he wanted that to happen – they had to ditch him, to be free of all the consequences. He also knew why she did it, how they dulled his attention, making him believe they’d left Boston, using that to sneak closer. It worked.

But it troubled her. It wasn’t normal for Sophie to constantly avoid a direct talk about problems, and it showed him, if nothing else, after he witnessed her elusion, day after day, that he had to press her. Make her talk. Now. Not the best time for him, but he owned her that.

She pursed her lips in a line thinner than usual. “I guess you’re right, we need to talk. But only if you really-”

“I do. I insist. No more beating around the bush, Soph.”

She took the cup from him and put the mask in his hand. Small victories – she did notice his inability to command his hands, and she said nothing. Then she sighed. “You didn’t use the gun I gave you,” she said. “Why?”

“Didn’t have to. Told them I was left behind with a dead man’s switch, to kill them all. Gave ‘em the marzipan to smell explosives. And Don Lazzara called and confirmed. They cleared out,” he said. He had time, he could wait for her to broach the subject for hours, if needed. “Now that you mentioned that… why did Don Lazzara confirm it?”

“Nate called him when we went back. It seems you played the same thing, not knowingly – that’s why it worked double.”

“Why are you asking about the gun?”

“You haven’t killed anybody.”

Maybe he wasn’t as well as he thought, because he winced. He cleared his throat. “Is that a statement, or a question?” He didn’t want his tone of voice to come out quite that harsh.

“A statement,” she titled her head. “I gave you a gun, and you didn’t use it.”

Okay, she was confusing him now. “Did you want me to use it?”

“That's not the part that bothers me,” she shook her head. “It’s the fact that I. Gave you. The gun. Me. It’s… it’s connected with That Night, with a problem I told you I would ask you to explain to me. Something I don’t understand.”

He leaned back. The pillows were high behind his back, allowing him to almost sit, and he still could rest his head and make himself more comfortable. And he carefully arranged his hands, one still holding the mask.

Her hands were fidgeting with the cup, her long fingers almost clumsy, uncontrolled. He waited.

“It’s… violence,” she breathed, finally.

That _wasn’t_ what he expected. “I thought you wanted to talk about our… conversation,” he said carefully.

Her eyes, laced with concern, eased a bit. “No, why should I? I’m pretty satisfied with the general outcome, and I would do it again. I didn’t know if I was angrier with you, or more scared for you – you’re lucky I didn’t put all my efforts into that performance.” She huffed a soundless laugh. “But we weren’t in the same position when I called you, nor are we now. Your trouble, that you must solve, is that you caused the death of innocent people. My trouble is… well. Violence.”

He stopped yet another wince, a twitch of anger at her reckless tone of voice. _Death of innocent people_ , okay, move along, nothing important. Something very heavy and sharp squeezed around his heart, again, at that reminder. He took one controlled breath, and exhaled it, slowly, along with his anger.

He could do this. He was stronger now, his mind was clearer.

“And what, exactly, is your problem with violence?” he asked.

“Do you enjoy it? Do you look forward to it? To fighting… hurting other people?”

He closed his teeth on a snappish reply; hadn’t she been in the tunnels, for god’s sake – but the look in her eyes showed him her earnest turmoil. She needed his answer, not bitching.

He kept them away from it as much as he could, and he couldn’t now blame them for not understanding it.

“Fighting is a self-correcting process,” he said, his voice flat and level. “It’s a skill, a life-long lesson. Something like ironing. With practice, you get better, you use less moves for ironing one sleeve. It’s… clean and predictable.”

“Clean?” her dark eyebrows jumped a few millimeters.

“It’s a tool, Sophie. Fighting skills are useful. You use it when you have something to get done. And just like any other tool you use, you feel good if you’re good at using it. A good fight isn’t different from a good grift. But, take Hardison as an example. Do you think, when he hacks encrypted files, that he hates them? Does he holds a grudge if some page is temporarily unavailable? Does he count them as his enemies, or does he just notice their presence, and does the necessary steps to pass through them, override them, or delete them?” He stopped then, searching her eyes, just breathing for a few seconds. “Opponents in a fight are just that – pieces of a puzzle that has to be solved. I do enjoy a quick and good solving – the more opponents dealt with, the better. That means I am better at what I do.” She didn’t even blink. He managed one unfelt smile. “I don’t _enjoy_ hurting people.” This time, a little bitterness crept into his voice, he couldn’t hide it. “But sometimes when you fight, you fight for life – you have to give everything to stay alive. And that’s _violence_. That’s the thing that scares you.”

She lowered her eyes to his hands, and kept them there. Just then he realized that he managed to clear out every trace of the drug; there was nothing relaxed in him anymore, he felt stiff and knotted up, his every muscle strained in tension. _Small victories, indeed_. Maybe he really had overestimated his strength, his mental state. He had to put an effort in taking slow breaths – they seemed to come in as ragged, sharp hisses.

“And what,” she started, paused a second, then slowly continued without raising her eyes to his face, “what if you feel so mad, that you _want_ to hurt someone? Maybe even kill him? Not only defeat him in a fight to move him out of your way?”

“Then you do it or don't. Depends on your control. Why, Sophie?”

Now she glanced at him. “Even if he is an innocent victim?”

He froze, he couldn’t help it. The ghosts were breathing coldly in his ear.

“What are you doing?” his voice came out as a hoarse whisper. _Why_ she was doing this? He felt like a drowning man who finally managed to reach the surface, only to face a hand that pushed him back in over his head.

“Trying to understand, Eliot,” she whispered back. “I was talking about _me_.” Her eyes softened, and a ghost of a sad smile flew over her face. “I’m sorry I mentioned that word… _innocent_ – I know you react to that, it’s still painful-” God dammit, he twitched, this time visibly. “-but I was the one who wanted to kill a man, I enjoyed that, that... violence. And I’m scared.”

The fact that his hand trembled when he raised the mask to his face did nothing to dissolve the knot in his throat. Nor did the oxygen help him to override his brain, helplessly caught in a spiral of flashback feelings, not images.

“Scared of what?” he whispered.

“Myself,” she withdrew from him until her back rested on the lower railings of the bed. He couldn’t decipher if she was giving him space, or distancing herself from him and what he stood for – but it felt better, he breathed a little easier. “It was morning, in the park in front of Estrella. I went out, I couldn’t breathe in Lucille, needed some air… and I faced one Chilean. He just stood in front of me.” She shook her head, her voice growing desperate. “Eliot, I hit him… no, I slammed him with all my strength, three times, knocked him out, and I didn’t want to stop, it was payback time, and I was so frustrated and scared and I wanted to kill him right there, and-” She stopped with a caught breath. “It felt…good,” she finished with a whisper. “I never thought I would, I would…”

“React like a normal human being?” he finished when she fell silent. This time, he even managed to smile. If this was the only thing that bothered her… “Sophie, you were under enormous stress. Your life was in danger, and the lives of people you love. And I doubt your reasoning was crystal clear in that moment.”

“But it’s not normal to feel that way.”

“It wasn’t a normal situation. Tell me, what did you feel in the tunnels, when we fought our way out? The same?”

“No. Didn’t want to kill or hurt anybody.” She was frowning now, searching his face. “You’re right… I didn’t think of that. The tunnels were the perfect time for that to emerge again – god, I was so scared it would return…”

“I doubt you will ever be in a similar situation again,” he said slowly.

The relief around her was almost palpable now, and her smile, forced into emerging, spread over her face almost naturally. “I’m glad I didn’t kill that man,” she said, “I don’t know what would I do if I did. But I could, you know? I slammed him in his knee, in his stomach, and face, and he went down – I could've snapped his neck in the fourth move easily.” A small giggle escaped her. “I can’t believe I’m saying that. I have to be really careful from now on – if I ever meet some member of a gang or cartel again, I have to hold myself and not fight, do nothing to-”

“Wait, wait!” he cut her off. This wasn’t going in a good direction, she was running from one extreme to the other, and he couldn’t follow her. The mental image of Sophie facing any gang member again painted his vision red. She had no idea. “Soph, now listen to me,” he rasped, suddenly in a half panic. “Stop with that crap, you don’t know what you're talking about. Neither of you know anything about that world – the streets are deadly place. You _have to_ fight there. Please, don’t-” he swallowed, took another breath from the mask, forced his mind to clear.

“No, I won’t risk that again,” she stated firmly.

“Then you’ll get killed!” he hissed. “You might encounter them again, any of them, Boston is full of gangs and it would be inevitable at some point, and if I’m not near…” Just the thought of it sent shivers through him. For one long, long moment, he was back in the warehouse, watching a muzzle flash, feeling that bullet again – and the thought of Sophie in his place – Sophie deciding not to fight, so not to hurt anybody, Jesus – almost drove him into hyperventilation. “Your world is clean, darling, theirs ain’t.”

“Of course theirs isn’t, when they have no other options!”

 _What the hell_? His blood boiled in a second, fear clenched his gut. “This ain’t West Side Story! Stop being a romantic fool, just once, and listen to me! They are in the gangs ‘cause they want to, ‘cause they gain money and power, nobody is forcing them! They _have_ other options! They’ve chosen that – it’s free will, Sophie, and that makes them so damn dangerous. They live on the street, and by the street laws, they kill without mercy – every gang member goes through initiations that would drive you insane just knowing what they do. Please, don’t, ever, say something like that again. Not one of them is innoc-”

He stopped. Frozen.

He couldn’t force himself to continue the cut off breath; he just stared in front of him.

Ten seconds.

Then he raised his eyes to her.

“Not one of them is innocent, Eliot?” her voice, soft and gentle, had no traces of that hurried relief she showed before. “Good to know that.”

He could feel the blood beating in his ears in the silence that followed.

“It’s also good to know that being in a gang is their free will,” she went on quietly. “That they went into the fight That Night because it was what they do.”

He opened his mouth, closed it. She waited for him to speak, with her head tilted. “Soph, it’s not that simple. It’s…”

“No, it isn’t that simple,” she said. “But it’s _enough_. For you, for me, for everybody – even for a Law. It would be enough even now… or tomorrow… or in two months, when you’re completely healthy, clear-minded and reasonable. But it definitely was enough That Night, when you had nothing else to do.” She paused a little, then went on. “ 'Sophie, you were under enormous stress. Your life was in danger, and the lives of people you love. And I doubt your reasoning was crystal clear in that moment',” she repeated his own words to her, with a deadly precision, catching his every tone. “You initiated it, that’s true. But they could refuse, and would, if that wasn’t in their nature, in their way of life. Their decision. A free will, Eliot.”

He could only watch her, stupefied. God, this was a long, long con. Every damn thing she did, every damn worried smile, twitch of unease, every bait she threw at him, led him to this moment. She made him follow her bread crumbs, leading him to _want_ to speak to her. And you don’t suspect a trap when you have to force another person to speak to you, to open up and tell you her problem.

“You’re a lethal weapon,” he breathed.

“No, you are,” she said. “Or you will be, if you master one little thing.” She got up and stretched like a lazy cat. “You’re fighting fire with fire.”

He blinked. She smiled.

“It’s a good way, efficient, and you’re extremely good at it, more than anybody I know. But, that always leaves one fire still burning, over and over again, waiting for another fire to put it off. Taking its place.” She smiled then, warmth mixed with tears. “One day you’ll learn to use water, darling.”

.

.

.

***

.

His temperature jumped to 106F the moment Sophie left.

Janice and Rosalie, instead of doing something constructive, first put him through a thorough cross-interrogation, trying to draw from him what he had done to cause that. He pulled up his right to remain silent, and drifted away.

He did nothing. He was just tired, beaten, shitty and distressed to the point of walking up to the ceiling. Betsy would know all that in the first glance, and start her speech about stress levels. They didn’t know. The only good thing was taking him off the medusa-drug; they gave him a mix with more anti-inflammatory thingies inside, with traces of happy pills, and morphine. Tasted like a good wine. A few more days here, and he would have only chemicals in his bloodstream – but he would be an expert on all sorts of cocktails.

The bad thing was a change in visiting hours. More precisely, they chased away everybody, and locked him in the room.

He didn’t know what Florence did when she arrived, and how she made them let her in, but they gave her just five minutes to see him. And they spent them with his reassuring her he was fine, and her scared nagging. It seemed that she, also, blamed _him_ for this fever. Great confidence, but seriously?

He _was_ fine.

When Betsy arrived, taking the third night shift in a row, she dismissed all the previous orders, but it was too late now for Florence to return. He didn’t call her.

She had to sleep. He had to think. God knew he had a lot of things to think about.

It was late evening when Nate came to his room, fully dressed and ready to go.

Knowing that Betsy arrived two hours ago, that meant that Nate had lost two hours in negotiating his release, and according to his worn out face, it was a battle much harder than any mark could put him through.

He seriously considered pretending to sleep. If he had to endure _The talk_ with Nate, in the same day as Sophie’s attack, he would break down completely. There was only a certain amount of mental torture he could endure, and today he reached the edge of it. His balancing on the cliff, with one foot ready to step down, was his problem now, not theirs.

Nate sat in the chair by his bed, with a glass of orange juice in his hand.

“Give me your water,” he said.

He handed him the cup – completely coordinated this time – and watched him pour an inch of his own juice into his water. The same thing he did the last time. The same smell from his cup. And he almost asked him the same question – _are you sure Betsy would approve this_ – and managed to stop himself in the last moment.

His stomach tied in knots again. Yet, there was a difference, visible in Nate’s sitting, in the way he held his cup, and not just because he had one arm in a sling.

This time, Nate had nothing to tell him. He eased the tension that coiled inside him, when the silence spread, when they just sat there, sipping on their drinks.

“I was almost completely sure we would all die there,” Nate said after a while.

“Yeah, me too,” he said.

Nate smirked. He smirked back.

And after that, Nate left.

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*

 

 

 


	70. Chapter 70 - The End

 

 

Chapter 70

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***

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Orion seemed happy when she brought him back to his home. He searched around the apartment, sniffing all the new smells, and finally settled in his favorite spot near her working table.

Florence finished her packing with a green silk bundle. Her dress was still wrapped around her award. She didn’t open it, just put it deep in the last bag.

Everything was just fine.

When Nate arrived from the hospital, he knocked at her door, letting her know she should come to the post-job briefing tomorrow morning. That was perfect, she could say her goodbyes to them all, before she went to Mass Gen to see Eliot. To talk to him.

She smiled a lot.

She went to sleep early.

Everything was, still, just fine.

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***

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Except it wasn’t.

It was the sound of crying that woke her up the first time – it took some time before she realized that she was the one crying.

The second time it was fear, chase, screaming, shots all around in the darkness, until she woke up in a small shaking ball on the floor, barely able to breathe. Knudsen’s cut out face followed her into reality.

The third time it was panic without any reason, a veil of dread that covered her in darkness, and just wouldn’t dissipate no matter what she did to lull herself to sleep again.

It was four a.m. when she rapped on Nate’s door, preparing some sort of explanation. But she didn’t have to say anything; Nate took just one look at her face, in pajamas, clutching Orion to her chest, and moved a step back to let them in.

She crawled in the hospital bed. There was still a faint scent of his aftershave on the pillows.

Nate turned off the lights, leaving a small one in the kitchen, and returned upstairs, not saying anything. Not asking, not giving, just letting her be.

She hugged one pillow, admitting to herself, finally, that clichés could function, and fell asleep while watching Orion desperately search for George.

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***

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“And why are you so silent?”

Betsy’s question stirred Eliot from thinking; she brought him breakfast and he was deep in studying the gruesome heap on the plate. At least there was no broccoli this time.

“Now? Or in general?” he asked. “I have nothing to say. I rarely do, in fact. Last time I had to talk. Now I don’t have to.”

She sat in the chair and poured tea in two cups. She was ready to leave, dressed in a black dress and jacket. She looked tired. Chief nurses didn’t take night shifts, unless they had irresponsible idiots to take care of. He lowered his eyes to the plate again, suppressing a sigh.

He poked a squishy, yellow bulge with the fork. It made a soggy sound.

“What is the mortality rate in Mass Gen?” he asked. “Any anomalies in post-surgical care? A dramatic increase after meals?”

“Ah, now you _have_ something to say?” she smirked. “Yes, I forgot that the only way to feed you was to tell you stories and keep you occupied. Janice and Rosalie are coming soon – do you want them to get pissed off because you refused to eat? Don’t provoke them, Eliot. The last patient they had problems with was fed their special mixture – the poor man reported vampire-dinosaur nightmares weeks after he was released.”

“The vampire dinosaurs would, actually, be an improvement,” he sighed. The fever was gone, he was fine, and he could expect another mix of drugs today, as soon as Betsy cleared out. And he still didn’t think about what to do with the two nurses, not even once. This was like The Misery. Double misery, pun intended.

“You _are_ aware of the differences between me now, and me before, aren’t you?” he asked carefully.

“You’re beaten, with cuts and multiple fractures, you went through surgery and your state, in general, isn’t that much better than when you woke up the last time. We keep a steady, and high level of painkillers in your blood. You just think you’re fine. You’re not. You messed this up big time.”

“And all because I tried to keep my promise,” he said morosely. She raised her eyebrows, inviting him to continue. “I promised you I would come here as soon as the ceremony ended, remember? They tried to stop that. I had to fight to come here – basically cut my way through them just to-” shit, no, he couldn’t continue and keep his face straight, he had to stop. He was losing his touch. Drugs, he said inwardly. Only drugs, nothing more. Damn things made him grin when he didn’t want to.

She took a sip of tea and smiled. He was grateful she didn’t roll her eyes, she pretended he hadn't said anything. “This time, we’re doing it right, by the book. When you leave this room, you’ll be healthy.”

“You know little about my job,” he said. “I usually walk away from the things like this.”

“Yeah, saw your x-rays.”

He moved the tray away – the yellow thing was too close, and the smell almost made him sick.

“Later,” he said, taking the tea cup.

She said nothing, watching him studiously while he stirred the tea, with a smile that only a very naïve person would call soft.

“I know why you were so nice and quiet these last two days,” she said. “Doing nothing, taking orders, being a perfect patient.”

“Because I’m a responsible and clever adult?” he grinned. One of the reasons he loved her was her ability to keep him on his toes – there wasn’t a thing he could hide from her… just delay her finding out a little.

“They were all here,” she said. “Why would you leave when Nate and Hardison were in the room next door, and the girls constantly around? But first Hardison, and now Nate left. Nothing’s keeping you here. And you’re starting.”

No point in lying to her. If nothing, he’d learned that by now. “Have you prepared something special? Any countermeasures?”

“Have you?” she tilted her head at him.

“Not yet.”

“She’s leaving. You might as well stay here and really do something for your health, for a change. Unless you’re going to keep her here?”

“She’s married. And she loves her husband.”

“She loves you, idiot.”

“She- what? Don’t be a fool, it’s just attract-”

“If you want, you can make her stay. You _should_ make her stay.”

Could he? Yes, as a matter of fact, he could. But… “Betsy,” he sighed. “Doing that would be as useful, in the long term, as using chloroform. Knock it off, will ya?”

“She would be perfect for you – smart enough to call you on your shit, and crazy enough to do that shit with you.”

Damn, he didn’t need that simple sentence – it brought vivid pictures of a life he could too easily see before his eyes. She might’ve seen what he thought – of course she did, she always did – because she got up and took the cup from him, replacing it with a small bowl of ice cream.

“This would’ve been the reward if you ate the breakfast first, but I can recognize lost battles,” she murmured.

He could eat that. Vanilla and chocolate, simple and cold, without any suspicious additives.

She watched him eat for a minute or two, silent, until it became too awkward. He knew she had more things on her mind, he could see that in her quiet attention.

“What now?” he asked.

“When you find someone who grounds you by lifting you up, and she does that, it’s foolish to let her go.”

He thought she finished with that. He took another spoonful and smiled. Her smile in an answer grew calm, and he sighed.

“You were a killer, a robber, a thief, who knows what sort of laws you've broke by now… and when it comes to stealing a woman, you hesitate? She might be married ten times, but that woman loves you. You can steal her. Playing fair in a game of love is stupid. Break the law, Eliot. One more time.”

“It’s not a matter of fair play. It’s… honor. Some things you don’t do to the people you, you…” he barely stopped the ice cream from going the wrong way, and cleared his throat under her gaze. “To the people you love,” he finished gruffly. “Stop with this, Betsy… I had one conversation about free will already, two would be too much. Forcing people to stay, or love, or do anything, never ends well.”

“You’re stupid,” she shook her head. “I’m not talking about clubbing her and dragging her into the cave. I’m talking about a woman who is standing at a crossroads, choosing her path. Both are possible. If you think a simple push in one direction is dishonorable, or forcing her into anything... you’re a fool. It’s still her free will – and she's got plenty of it, as far as I saw.”

Oh yes, she had a plenty of that. He felt his smile soften at the mere mention. A mistake. Betsy saw his mental step back, and she opened her mouth to advance, but he quickly raised his hand. “Don’t. Just… don’t. I know everything, Betsy. And I listened to what you said. That’s much more than I usually give, to anybody.” Just as he said it, did he become aware of how close he let her, how many lines he let her step across, and it felt… right. He paused for a second, pretty stupefied by the thought. He didn’t even consider that closeness to be a security risk. “Anyway,” he went on, “Let’s concentrate on my inevitable escape. You seem pretty stoic, after everything you said about my condition and the time I have to spend here.”

She kept her eyes on him for a few seconds. “Okay,” she said finally, much to his relief. “We can talk about your tries, but this time, you aren’t going anywhere. Janice and Rosalie are prepared. You’ll need days to come up with some sort of plan, to find a hole in the procedures. You may as well just give up and rest, while you have a chance.”

“Wait… what about you? What are you going to do to stop me?”

“Nothing. You won’t die if you leave, the internal bleeding is stopped.”

Right. This was a classical lulling an enemy into false security. He eyed her skeptically. She returned one innocent smile.

“This will be interesting,” he said. “So, I’ll need days. That’s your final answer?”

She got up, glancing at her watch. “The two of them just arrived, they’re taking it from here. Good luck. And see you tomorrow. Here.” She smiled again, pointed one finger at the breakfast tray, and left.

He did have a phone. He took it from the cupboard, glancing at the menus. Hardison transferred all his data onto this one. He could do whatever he wanted, with Betsy at home and not peering over his shoulder. Yet, this time he didn’t have the motivation for a complicated con. He even thought to just give up and stay here.

But he needed something else, something that a well lit hospital room couldn’t give him, with visits, nurses, TV, and the team who would continue their watch as soon as morning passed.

He needed _time_. And he needed it now.

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***

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Rosalie and Janice found him staring sightlessly into the wall under the window. He'd turned the TV off, disconnected all the IVs and heart monitor clamps, causing the alarms in their control room to shriek in panic.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?!” Rosalie growled, hovering over him, collecting all the wires. “We can call hospital security!”

“Don’t care,” he whispered, not turning his head to them.

“We’ll call Betsy,” said Janice.

“Don’t care.”

He could see them glancing at each other.

“Listen, stop with this crap,” Rosalie said, this time without growling. “We’ll now connect the IV again, okay? You won’t cause any problems?”

Instead of an answer, he just raised his hand with the cannula still in it, letting her do her job.

“What’s wrong with you?” Janice asked when he let Rosalie attach all that shit to him again. “What was the point of this?”

He thought they would never ask.

He slowly raised his head to them. Tired. Beaten. Empty. He let defeat and despair tingle just beneath that emptiness, but let out one shadow of a sad smile. He kept it exactly three seconds, then faded it into nothing.

“She’s leaving me,” he breathed, letting his voice break. “And I don’t know what to do.”

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***

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The rain stopped when Sophie came to the apartment, leaving the umbrella to dry by the door. Florence waved to her; the grifter went to the kitchen first, to grab coffee that she had prepared.

Florence stood by the window that looked over McRory’s entrance, now open, without the metal panels that covered it before. Hardison’s people had changed both windows and the wood panels on the walls, replaced all the furniture with bullet holes in it with identical ones, and no traces of the sniper attack were left. Only in her mind. That nightmare was an almost pleasant one – his arms were around her all the time, and the whistling bullets were forgotten.

Parker had helped her bring all her bags, and Orion’s carrier here. She locked her apartment. Everything was set.

Sophie brought chocolate croissants for breakfast; it seemed that every single thing that happened would stir some sort of memory. Sophie did that the morning of her first disturbed inner ramblings about Eliot, when she admitted to herself she was attracted to him. How the hell could everything spin out of control so quickly? She left the window and joined the grifter and Parker in the kitchen. Parker kept herself busy with stuffing the remaining marzipan balls onto the croissants. They’d eaten all the colored ones, only ivory ones were left, without any color.

She grabbed a coffee cup before the image of an orange rose grew too vivid before her eyes. Wherever she turned, whatever she thought, everything was full of _him_.

She almost wished the rain would continue to pour – the same rain that colored all her days here. It all started with rain on her window, that night Goon A tried to kill her. It seemed right to end with it, too.

They waited for Hardison, but she had enough time. Massachusetts General was on her way to Logan Airport.

As if she read her thoughts – which wasn’t surprising at all – Sophie welcomed her with a smile. “When you go to the hospital, would you take something for Eliot?” That was a subtle question about her visiting plans, but she pretended she didn’t get it.

“Sure, what?”

“Parker prepared his pajamas,” Sophie said with an even voice; only she could at the same time show and hide a boiling of laughter beneath it.

“What’s wrong with him loving those pajamas?” Parker asked, her eyes narrowing as if Sophie attacked something precious.

Sophie leaned back in her chair in a casual, almost fluid move, returning Parker’s gaze evenly; she crossed her legs and her dress slid to the side, revealing silk stockings on a perfectly sculpted ankle. But there was some black smudge under the gloss of the silk.

“You still have that black butterfly covering Buck’s teeth marks?” Florence asked.

“I decided to keep it for a while. It has many meanings.” Her eyes trailed to Parker while saying that, and Florence noticed that the thief stiffened a little. And she thought they were done with undercurrents. Sophie smiled. “But,” she continued, “I chose a meaning that I like: in many cultures, it is believed that black butterflies are the symbol of transition, renewal or rebirth. In short, black butterflies are supposed to be the sign of positive change in the present situation.” Sophie grabbed a croissant, took the marzipan ball from it, and only then looked at them again. “They also represent death. In the end, it all comes down to what meaning you choose. Only that matters.”

She maybe didn’t understand what that was about, but she could feel it. This time, the slight tension in Sophie’s voice wasn’t a message for her, but her real feelings.

She searched, frantically, for something to say, to end the silence that fell after her words, but in vain.

The door slamming sounded like a gunshot, and she almost screamed.

“Can’t believe nobody’s watching the news!” Hardison stormed into the apartment, waving his tablet. “Don’t you wanna know what’s happening in the outside world?”

Not really, she thought at the same time Nate raised his head from the papers he studied at the dining table, and said, “Not really. You’re watching that thing while walking?”

“Always,” Hardison was already by the sofa, clicking the remote, and the screens flashed with images and sounds, all six of them showing different news. Six reporters, six studios… but only one image behind their backs.

Don Lazzara.

Florence got up from the dining table and went closer; Hardison chose one screen, turning off all the others, and a female voice said, “…remains in critical condition.”

“He had a stroke during the night, they don’t expect he would make it,” Hardison explained.

“Oh, another deus ex machina,” Florence said sitting on the sofa.

“What? You mean somebody…” Hardison finished his sentence by drawing his hand over his throat.

“No, nothing like that. It’s just a trick we use when we don’t want to explain everything in the post-trial and prison time of the bad guy taken down and arrested. And when we don’t want to make a sequel for the episode. Kill him. Later, if you want, you can bring him back, of course.”

“Do we know the hierarchy in his branch of the Boston mob, Hardison?” Nate asked collecting and putting away his papers. “Who is the next in line? Any more nephews?”

“Nah, nothing . They will fight for some time. I’ll keep tabs on it.”

“You do that,” Nate said, waving them all to sit.

An empty chair looked even emptier when Orion chose to sit there and watch them all. But nobody said anything about the team not being complete.

“I was a little worried about the career of our French water guy, but according to all the interviews he is giving, no damage was done,” Hardison continued, opening the bag he brought. “I bought lasers and special cameras to try a few of his tricks…”

“Speaking of cameras, do you still have our surveillance around the building up and running?” Nate interrupted him.

“Yes, why? Want me to take them down?”

“No, keep them up… pull them up in the upper screen.” Nate turned to her as he spoke. “Reporters,” he explained shortly. Explained? Florence raised her eyebrows.

Hardison watched him too. “Okay.” He moved the things to one side of the coffee table, and grabbed the remote. One screen filled with small images of the outer cameras. “Now… I know all of you’ve been busy and haven’t had time to watch anything,” Hardison removed the news about Don Lazzara and put something else on the screen. “Recorded this last night.” The screen showed another reporter, and they listened to a short recap of the police investigation, that led to the arrest of a suspect in the terrorism threat. An unknown man, Florence never saw him at the PVA.

“That one looks like a technician who sent me to grab him some tools,” Parker said. “But can’t be sure until I hear him speak.”

“Bonnano said they had enough evidence – it seems he is a lunatic who already made similar threats – they caught him when they studied a bottle. Nasty stuff in that bottle – but we now know he drank plenty of water.”

“What?” Both Parker and Florence said at the same time.

“You carried a bottle full of piss,” Hardison grinned. “No viruses – just piss that would’ve ended up on Robert Downey Jr.'s head if you didn’t stop it.”

“Eeuw,” Florence almost rubbed her hands on the sofa; she'd carried that on her back, near her dress… but the expression on Nate’s face drew her attention. He looked like a ray of light hit him directly in the face, and his smile was…

“Don’t you even think about saying _that_!” Sophie growled at him, and he shut his mouth.

“Say what?” Parker asked, frowning.

“Nothing, Parker, moving on. With grace,” Nate waved his good hand. “Hardison, police report from the hospital, and all the stuff that could lead somebody to us?”

Hardison engaged in a thorough report of all the little things he took care of. Florence lost him after a few minutes. She just sat there, sipping her coffee, watching them all.

They looked fine, all of them, even Nate. This was the third day after the PVA, and they bounced back on their feet as if nothing happened. When she wrote her seven idiots, she often thought they weren’t convincing; too strong, too invincible. And then she met these people.

Somewhat belatedly, she realized that this time she was watching them from the other side of the bubble, not inside, with them, anymore. A smooth, shiny surface distorted the reality.

“…I even had time to sneak into the Opera House and Paramount Building – collected all the cameras, except those which Parker put in the ceremony hall, too high for me…”

Bubble or no bubble, she now had them in her life. The feeling of loss subsided; she intended to keep them all. She would find some way to live through her love for Eliot, too. Everything would look different in three months when she returned. It would be time for building, then, on this groundwork they laid now.

“I took them down,” Parker said around a mouthful of croissant, spitting the crumbs all over the sofa. Sophie shook them off the moment they landed, her quick sticky fingers moving faster than the eye could follow. Florence smiled when warmth filled her; oh yes, she wanted them in her life.

And maybe she even needed them a little.

But then she met Nate’s eyes. Serious, thoughtful eyes that weren’t smiling. He always made her feel naked, as if her every thought was exposed on a menu. And surprisingly, she was good with that. It also felt right now.

“That’s enough, Hardison, we can finish the last details later,” he said, then looked at her again. “Florence, give me your phone, please.”

She handed it to him, and he threw it into Hardison’s hands. The hacker started typing on it immediately.

“What’s going on?” she asked.

“He's deleting all our numbers, contacts, all the logs and messages you have in there,” Nate said. “And we need to talk.”

She covered the sinking feeling with a neutral smile. “Would I like it?”

“It’s for your protection,” he went over her question. “We stirred up lots of noise at the PVA, not to mention all the mobster business – laying low and playing dead is the wisest thing to do now. It will be easier with Don Lazzara out of the equation. Yet, your name might be connected with our activities. Don’t think that people forgot about you being accused of plotting everything that led to renewing your season. The moment the PVA became old news, someone would bring it up.”

“I can deal with the press, Nate, I’ve been doing that my entire career. Their attention is easily diverted. If you’re worried I would-”

“I’m not worried about your side or your actions.” He let out a small smile now. “We have many enemies. Before you came, even before the Chilean mess, we were involved in other things, and it will continue now. Powerful people, and big jobs. As soon as Eliot gets better, we’ll go on with our work. Your leaving is perfect. You’ll be out of reach and out of sight.”

“You think somebody may, because of the PVA, connect me to you and your doings? And use me to get to you?”

“Let’s put it this way… if somebody does that, it won’t be some innocent observation. A person who did that will be hostile. Only the one searching for a way to find us would start with connections, anyway.” Nate held out his hand, and Hardison gave him her phone. “No contacts, Florence. When you leave, forget you ever met us. Three months should be enough for the dust to settle. You’ll return here, and then we’ll meet and assess the situation. Hardison will keep tabs on all searches and inquiries around you, and warn you if someone tries to dig.”

“What if I notice something? How will I warn _you_?”

“You won’t. That’s the most common way of forcing you to confirm we're connected – if somebody tries to press you, he's doing it so you would call us. Forget we exist. We’ll know, we have the means to find out.”

He gave her back her phone. “It’s just a precaution,” he went on a little softer, and glanced at Sophie. “You’ll have your babbling shoe sessions upon your return.”

“I will miss you all,” she said looking at the useless phone in her hand, then chuckled to conceal the soft sound of the bubble cracking. “Even George. Even Betsy.”

Sophie patted her knee, gently. “There, there. Missing Betsy is a sure sign you’re too emotional right now. Look at this as a hiatus, nothing else. A normal thing between two seasons.”

“You can’t miss Betsy, you’re already missing Nate,” Parker stated.

“What?” they all turned to the thief.

“You can’t double miss someone,” she said. “She is like Nate. A female Nate.” Parker put her fingers into the claws and bared her fangs, hissing.

“Maybe she _was_ ,” Hardison’s voice sounded tense, and they all looked at him now, alerted. “But she surely lost her touch.” He pointed at the small screen that showed their surveillance cameras, and Florence leaped to her feet.

George was being helped out of a taxi.

“I’ll record this,” Hardison shook his head, “but we better-” she didn’t listen, she'd already ran to the window. “I’ll just go down and- ah, never mind.”

They all lined up at the window, even Nate followed them.

Florence didn’t know whether she would chuckle or curse when she saw that Rosalie was the one who took George out of the taxi – but she surely knew that a grin on her face wouldn’t so easy to make go away. Especially when Eliot got out and looked up, his face lightening when he saw her.

“There you go, sweetie,” Janice helped him straighten up, closing the door after them. “And don’t worry about Betsy, we’ll take care of that.”

“What the f-” Sophie’s accent went into nasally, low class when she saw Rosalie putting George on the ground and hugging Eliot.

“Call us if you need anything. _Anything._ ” With that, the two nurses got back into the taxi and drove away, leaving him on the sidewalk with the plant. He tilted his head, still looking up, as if challenging them to say something.

Dear god, that grin on his face… her heart fluttered, and Nate’s hand on her shoulder stopped her from leaning out too much. Nate was expecting him, she realized.

Hardison stormed out on the street, waving his hands around, in full bitching mode. He grabbed George in one hand, and with the other pulled Eliot to the door. He kept his voice low, she couldn’t hear what he nagged about, but whatever he said, it didn’t erase that smile on Eliot’s face, it made it even deeper. They disappeared from their sight, and all of them moved from the window.

Even Parker was grinning.

“And here we go again,” Nate sighed, but his smirk was softer than she'd ever seen it.

Florence hurried to the door to wait for him in the corridor, but her steps slowed when a disturbing thought hit her. He wasn’t thinking she would leave without seeing him and talking to him, was he? He couldn’t possibly think that she would do such a thing… no, no way. He probably just decided to do two things at the same time. Maybe she wasn’t important at all, and his decision to come here was only that – an escape from the hospital. She trailed off to the kitchen instead of waiting at the door, her steps reluctant.

It took them more than five minutes to come up, even with the elevator. When the door finally opened, she saw that Hardison left George in the corridor; he needed both hands to keep Eliot on his feet. That stupid, stupid idiot… it was way too early for walking and doing anything more demanding than sitting. But she should’ve known better by now.

No matter how dreadfully drained he looked, the glint in his eyes melted her knees and her heart with the same strength.

“I was wrong,” Nate said, going to them to help them walk; Sophie hurried to get George. “I counted on lunch, not breakfast. How long did it take you to…?”

“Twenty minutes,” Eliot rasped, he was completely breathless. “But twenty minutes of… hard work.”

She stood there, watching him, putting all her strength into not running to him. Hardison slowly guided him a few more steps into the room, and just then he looked at her. And that smile flashed again. “I’m going to pass out now,” he breathed. “When do you-”

“Not yet,” she said. “Go get rest, I’ll be here.”

“Good,” he slowly turned his head to the bed, eyeing the distance. “Nate…”

Nate was ready; they both caught him mid-fall. They half carried, half dragged him to the bed. He was out before they reached it.

Parker followed them, putting something on the railing of the bed. She went closer; baby blue, elephant daisies pajamas waited for him.

Sophie put George on the working table.

Florence took a chair.

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***

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He came together the moment his head touched the pillow, when the blood returned to his brain, but he let himself float for some time. Damn, this was such a bad idea. Pretending he didn’t know that those transfusions he still received were necessary was useless, so he gave up. He was done deceiving himself. He was done with many things.

Right now he was grateful for the soft chatting sound from the dining table. It gave him time to collect his thoughts.

He managed to tear down almost all the walls that surrounded him, only to find out that they were supporting him. Poking with his foot at the crumbled debris… yep, that was exactly what he was doing now. He was there, somewhere under that pile.

It was time to get up, shake off the dust, and look around.

He opened his eyes. Only George and Orion were near, both of them on the working table on his left. Orion rested his back against George’s pot, using it as support while he groomed his belly, studiously.

There was something disturbingly peaceful in that picture, and he rested his eyes on them, watching the cat’s immense concentration. Complete zen. That was a perfect example of what he had to do.

He needed to ground himself in the moment and keep it there, with no things that forced him to act, to move, to fight. With nothing that could disturb him. Only then could he try to finally make an inventory of the damage, to see where he was now. And what to do next.

Life-worthy lessons from a cat licking its belly, indeed.

But someone else obviously thought that his decision was wrong, and had different ideas of what he should do. George glanced at him with poorly hidden despise, then looked at Orion at his feet. Pot, roots. Whatever. _Target acquired. Locked on_.

“Whatever you’re thinking, don’t,” he quietly said. _Wrong tactic_. He should’ve known better than to make this a challenge.

George darted him a look, and slowly released one tiny yellow leaf onto Orion’s groomed fur. Orion froze, staring at the leaf for a few seconds, then went all over that spot.

He tried to hide his amusement, stopped the grin that threatened to spread over his face. That idiot didn’t need more encouragement. “Go sleep or somethin’,” he said gruffly, but George, just like Betsy, could always see through him. A strange pressure was building inside his chest, he had to breathe in, in one long, controlled inhale. _Or what_ , said George’s eyes, now full of challenge, a mischievous glint that meant trouble.

He let another leaf fall, in the same spot. Orion let out one murmured quack, frozen in disbelief; he stared at the leaf cross eyed, with his tongue half sticking out, confused to the point of insanity…

And he lost it. The pressure mounted until he recognized it, until the laughter burst out of him – fuck, it hurt – and he bent, clutching his chest to stop it. No chance. Orion turned to him, startled by his outburst, with that confused expression and pink tongue, and another wave of laughter rushed over him, until his eyes started to tear up, and his breathing became a ragged mess.

He heard chairs clanging and quick alarmed steps; they all hovered over him in a second. He took just one look at their faces with almost the same expression that Orion had, and grabbed the pillow, covering his face. That couldn't stop him either.

“What the hell is going on?” Nate managed to say sternly. He pointed at the cat.

“What… oh.”

He removed the pillow then, taking air in shorter, quick breaths, calming down. Parker was poking at Orion’s tongue; she giggled at the stupefied cat and he almost lost it again when he recognized the utter indignation in Orion’s eyes.

George looked on innocently, as if all of that wasn’t his business at all.

“Okay, that’s it, no more making fun of my cat,” Florence said, grabbing Orion. His paws went to grab George in a last try, and missed. “He is going into the carrier now.” But she didn’t turn around, she brought him closer to the bed. “Say goodbye to Eliot,” her voice lost its cheer.

He didn’t raise his eyes to her, just his hand to the cat. Orion murmured something and bonked his head at his fingers.

“Don’t drink and drive, little one,” he whispered. Orion rolled his eyes and turned his head to George, sharing one long look of sorrowful understanding. Okay, maybe the psychosis thing wasn’t completely cleared from his head.

Florence took Orion away. He managed to subside his grin a little, but when he tried to glare at the team standing around, he knew it looked more like squinting than a glare. “What? Nothing to see here, go away.”

“An excellent idea,” Sophie’s fine modulated voice sang with a smile. “We’re going to do just that.”

“We will?” Hardison looked at her. “What-”

“Going for a drink at McRory’s,” Sophie shooed the hacker in front of her. “Take your time, and call us later, okay?”

 _Take your time_. _Great_. He nodded to the grifter, and smiled back, not mentioning how cruel her words really were. But she probably already knew that.

The team cleared out in a second. Even Parker didn’t ask why they had to go, she just searched their faces and quickly followed.

He watched Florence putting Orion in the carrier, with tired, slow moves. He could feel the weight on her heart even from here.

But her steps seemed light when she finally finished, gathered the will to come and sit on his bed.

The end of all things, at last. Damn, it hurt.

She had a remote in her hands, and she stuck it in his face. What the hell?

“I want to press that red button,” she said. “It’s driving me nuts.”

“Why? Hardison would think he led us into the trap. You want to give him that?”

“And what would you suggest?” She eyed the thing in her hand.

“Gimme that.” She handed the remote to him, and he threw it into the glass of water on the cupboard. “There. He’ll know now we saw through his try. And you can ask him later what that was.”

“Can’t. Nate forbade any contact until I return, and they erased all the team’s numbers. Everything.”

That was a wise move, but it made all of this even more… final.

Silence spread between them like a veil. It wiped him blank. So much to say to her, and he could only stare.

“Where are your bags?” he asked finally.

“Already in a taxi. Its waiting at the street for some time. Orion’s transporter is the last thing to be put in it.” She entwined her fingers and kept her distance. He studied the mask on her face, wishing he could run his thumb over the cracks he saw, sealing them back. But she was out of his reach now. She always had been.

“Logistic mastery indeed,” he said lightly.

She flinched.

And what if he asked her to stay with him? He could ask her to extend her stay for a few days, for starters. He would do anything to make her change her mind – and he could do it. He knew how. But it would make her nothing more than a mark, a target. This time, when faced with something priceless, something _real_ , he couldn’t get it with grifting or seducing. He couldn’t do that to _her_.

He really chose the wrong time for practicing that damn fair play.

“Can we go through this as grown up, logical adults, and just see what happened and where we stand, and what to do next?” she asked. Her voice was level, just like every time during their episode watching when she was so distressed with – _insert random shit you caused –_ so she had to retreat into the mechanical shell to protect herself. And she was so lousy in hiding it, it was unbelievable.

“We can try,” he said. “But I already know why you have to go. Your staying wasn’t an option at all.”

“It was,” she whispered. For a moment, his heart almost stopped. But then he saw the pain taking over all other feelings in her eyes, and waited for the rest. “For me, love is about not doing anything to hurt the one you love. About trust and respect, and honesty. You said once that I was honest…” He didn’t say it _once_ – he said it while he cradled her in his arms, after they kissed, after…damn. He cleared his thoughts and concentrated on her words and not on her lips. “… and that’s the main problem here. I can’t do that… this… to a man I love. I can’t hurt him, it would tear me apart just as this…” she stopped, helplessly watching him for a second. “…just as this is tearing me apart now. He is an innocent victim here, he doesn’t know any of this, he doesn’t deserve that pain.”

Her fingers went white, she clutched them so hard. He reached with his hand to cover hers, waiting until he felt she relaxed her grip. And waited.

“But you are here, too,” she went on. “If you think I want to hurt you, you’re an idiot. I feel awful, in case you didn’t notice. And because of that, I, I need to know one thing,” she said, speeding up a little as if her courage was fading. “When you’re losing something… and I’m losing you now, it’s clever to know… not clever, it’s damn painful, but it’s worth knowing…” she stopped and sighed. “I want to know what, exactly, I am losing,” she finished. “If things were different, if I wasn’t married, would you… want me here?” her eyes flickered with insecurity. “Or this was just an, a useful distraction and attraction that wouldn’t last?”

It would've been better, for both of them, if she hadn’t just told him what this meant to _her_. Just for a moment, he thought about lying; his pride and hurt were stirring dangerously close to the surface now. He could chose to not show that to her, keep his guard up, decline and diminish everything. In the long term, it would be the best thing for her, it would mark this as a flirty affair without meaning, easy to get over with. But he never lied to her. One false promise was the last thing.

He watched the woman he wanted to wake up beside him for the rest of his life. And if he couldn’t be honest with her, lower all the walls and guards of pretentious macho shit, how could he even think he would deserve to love her? To keep her? This shit was a two-way street.

“I would never let you go,” he said. “And if you went away, I’d wait for you forever.”

Now he had something to remember. Her eyes widened, filling with tears, all the pain and love mixed with despair. He stared at her eyes, drawn in, _remembering_ this. “I hoped you’d say that this meant nothing,” she whispered then. “Sophie told me that it was possible to love two men at the same time, now I know it is. I just hoped I was the only one in trouble here. For you. It would be easier if I know you don’t, don’t…” Her voice broke then, and she took one ragged breath, unable to finish. He pulled her hands from his, and dashed the tears off her face.

“…if I don’t love you?” he finished her sentence. “If I had to choose between this happening or not, I would chose this. Because you’re making me alive. And you’ll continue doing that, no matter where you are. Don’t feel bad for me.”

“I don’t feel _bad_ for you,” her voice rose. “I feel like I have two men in front of me, and I have to choose the one to shoot at!”

“Shotgun or bazooka?”

She buried her face in her hands. “You’re an idiot,” she muttered through her fingers.

He wished he could make her laugh, just one more time before she left. That would be a memory worth remembering, much more than this despair in her eyes, no matter how much love was in it.

“How long have you been married to Jethro?” he asked.

“Two years. The night you showed up was our second anniversary.”

If she managed to connect with him this way in just six days, what she had done in two years? Their marriage must’ve been something special. And why then did she fall for you if she had all that she needed, a gruff voice asked inside his mind. He silenced it.

“Are you happy with him? Don’t lie to me now.”

“Yes,” she raised her face to him. “It would be easy if I weren’t. But _he_ makes me happy.”

She had a man from her circle, they shared the same world. She belonged there.

He was only two years late. Who knew what would’ve happened if he had met her then? He was a different man then, maybe it would've been a terribly wrong time. Maybe he needed her to come right now, of all times, to give him what he needed.

He reached out and took her hands again, choosing his words for the most important question. “Will you _continue_ to be happy with him, when you go to New Zealand? This won’t ruin anything for you?”

She hesitated. That was good, he wouldn’t believe her if she answered without thinking, not this time. But he needed to hear it from her. “I will,” she said finally. “After I find a way to deal with this. After I… no.” She shook her head. “It will be different. This will always be a stinging pain – but I will learn to live with it. And be happy.”

Fuck honesty. This time he would prefer she lied, if she lulled him into _everything will be just fine_.

Letting her go was harder and harder with every sentence, and his chest tightened.

He lowered his eyes to their hands to give himself some time, and that image just showed him the futility of all his hopes. Her small, delicate hands, with white, long fingers were made for keyboard and cocktails, autographs and silk gloves. His rough, bruised knuckles were made to crack when smashing people’s faces. But as he watched their hands, her fingers flapped a little. “Hey, you,” she said, and he looked up to meet her eyes.

“I _don’t_ want to forget this,” she said. She moved closer, regarding his face with unease. “But I’ll understand if you do. In fact, I strongly suggest you do. I would be extremely happy if I occasionally meet you with your girlfriend or wife when I return to Boston, in our corridor. Then you would have a chance to explain why the crazy ex-love interest accidentally poured dirty water on them from her window. I only have to remember to put some flowers on the sill, to make it look unsuspicious.”

He was too deeply severed to even think about that, but he appreciated the try. “I’ll start working on that the moment you go through that door,” he said lightly.

She smiled. He pretended he didn’t see how she pretended to believe his words. And after everything was said, all the truth revealed, they would end this in hiding and lying. He didn’t want _that_.

And he read the same thoughts in her eyes. They just stared at each other – a feeling of complete understanding, without any masks. No need for words anymore.

He thought he couldn’t feel any more warmth right now. He was wrong. A surge of warmth leaped out; she must’ve seen it in his eyes, because she reacted automatically, a smile escaped her at the same moment she leaned to him a little, relaxing her stiff shoulders.

They’d been so synchronized, all this time. No need to touch to know and feel everything. It was like a dance without rehearsal, a perfect following, only right reactions to every move, every step. All in six days. Sex with her would be an almost frightening experience. A perfect harmony, bodies and minds. He had to shake his head to clear that from his mind, it became unbearable to think of that with her so close.

But she leaned in, reading him – always reading him – and her lips touched his. “I will always love you,” she whispered, not moving, so damn close; her words trailed his skin more solidly than any touch. Her love and grief went as a tremble through him. He cupped her face, kissing her back, letting her feel every damn thing he couldn’t say to her, his need, his love, and his pain. He could taste her tears. And all he wanted was to make her laugh.

This time he stopped, he couldn’t allow this torture and bliss, mingled together, to deepen. He had to end this before he broke and ask her to stay. It would shatter them both, only bring more pain.

He could command his thoughts, but couldn’t command his hands, they clung to her face. “Go now,” he breathed, resting his forehead on hers, closing his eyes. “And don’t let the world change your smile, darlin’. I want you to smile.”

“Only if you promise me you’ll take care of yourself. I want you alive.”

She moved away, not waiting for his reply, and he knew why. He felt one more touch on his face, her light fingers just brushing off his cheek, and then a void took her place.

He opened his eyes only when he heard her steps; she grabbed Orion’s transporter, but she stopped before the door. Small, beautiful. And his.

One dazzling smile flashed at him – and he knew how much strength she needed to give him that now – and she was gone.

Some promises didn’t have to be said out loud, to be meant.

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***

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He waited until he heard the taxi door slamming through still open window, before he dared look at George. The plant just watched him.

“Nope,” he said. “Killing Jethro and taking care of the grieving widow _isn’t_ a good tactical move. Though I can understand your motives.”

He leaned back into the pillows, trying to relax his trembling limbs. An entirely new level of exhaustion swept over him. Lying in the bed, in a shaking heap wouldn’t be wise now. All he wanted had been in his arms, and he let it slip away, but thinking about it would only end in self-pity. Pain he could endure, the loss of things that might’ve been… but self-pity he loathed.

There would be time for licking his wounds. Not now. Now he shut the doors on his mind after her, putting her away. _Finished_.

He slowly got up.

The team was at McRory’s, and Sophie would kill them all before letting them come here without him calling them first. He had enough time to do whatever he wanted.

He had work to do.

He didn’t escape from the hospital to come here – he escaped to end this shit. He'd been trying to do that since they’d brought him into the apartment after Estrella.

What would happen if he didn’t hear the hits at her door and didn’t go out to stop them from killing her? They would have a dead neighbor. He wouldn’t be hooked on a stupid action show. They wouldn’t bring down two mob bosses. The Supernatural fandom would live happily ever after. He wouldn’t have one maddening, dazzling, weird distraction in front of his nose. He felt a smile emerging, and erased it. Finished, he repeated to himself, this time with more strength.

And he would have enough time to continue with what he was doing, and what he had to stop because Florence entered their lives and made a general mess. With her out of his life now, he could think of those six days as time that he had _lost_.

He went through the apartment, testing his steps. It felt different now, at the end of all things – as if his poor condition didn’t have anything to do with his decision. No matter if he couldn’t walk – he would simply crawl away. Did that shit before. He searched Nate’s working table and found some cash.

The pile of Sophie’s clothes, shirts and trousers she bought for him was still in the bags under the windows. He took one normal pair of pants and a plaid shirt, and changed from the mixture of clothes Janice and Rosalie completed so he could leave his room.

Nothing more to leave. No IDs, no credit cards. He left the Challenger keys on the dining table, and went to the kitchen. He had one more thing to do there before he left.

George was next.

“Parker will take care of you,” he said. “You trust her, right?” He put a few notes on paper and stuck it in his leaves – it felt like leaving a baby in a basket in front of an orphanage door. George looked betrayed. And alarmed. “Just don’t fill her head with nonsense… don’t speak to her at all. Play dead. Play a plant.”

He had to smash at the pile of crumbled walls to find himself again. He couldn’t take a plant with him, not this time.

He grabbed his jacket, and realized Florence wore it. It smelled like her hair and skin.

No. _Finished_. He left it on the sofa.

He quietly closed the door behind him, and went down the stairs.

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***

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The rain started again. He walked through the puddles, enjoying the splashing sound.

He was nineteen streets away – he counted – in an unknown part of town, when he pulled his phone out and pressed the speed dial. Nate answered immediately. He could picture them sitting at a table at McRory’s, waiting and worrying.

“Yo there,” he said. He was grinning this entire time, and he felt the tension easing at the other end of the line when Nate heard that in his voice. “Planning to head up soon, or are you busy with something?”

“We can come up. Why do I hear rain around you?”

“Because it’s raining, duh,” he said. “Say, before you come up… any chance you can go and buy us a kitten? A pet would be a wonderful thing for our social skills, don’t ya think?”

A choking sound was the only answer. He laughed and cut the line, carefully lowering the phone in the deepest puddle on the street, watching it die. _Now_ , he was free.

He trusted his instincts to guide him, and his feet to choose a path that wasn’t covered with street cameras. He knew Hardison would try to track him and find him. Walking was easier than he thought, now that he'd decided what to do.

He could disappear entirely. This street, right this one, could lead him wherever he wanted. No borders, no obstacles, a complete freedom.

He raised his face to catch falling drops, laughing again. There was something utterly deliberating in getting soaked with rain, in running away.

 _Catch me if you can, Hardison_.

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***

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Nate was the last to enter the apartment.

Hardison was already typing, searches flashing on all six screens, followed by his fast-paced mumbling of threats and curses.

Parker was standing by George. “He left notes for me. For George,” she said, her voice sounding so small that his heart ached.

Sophie had her back turned to all of them, watching the street through the window. Her arms were crossed, he could see that.

“Nate, I caught him on one camera in our block,” Hardison said. “I will scan everything and search from there. It won’t take long, I’ll find him. Will you-”

“No,” he said. He closed the door and entered, scanning the room.

Sophie turned around. Parker looked at him as if he set George on fire. “We won’t search for him this time,” he finished. “He’ll be back when he decides it’s safe to return. Abort all searches, Hardison.”

“He’s not well, Nate,” Sophie said.

“He’s well enough for everything he wants to do.”

“And what if he doesn’t come back?” Parker asked.

His eyes stopped on the kitchen, and he smiled. “He had made you two marzipan roses, and marzipan frogs for Hardison. Have you noticed he didn’t make any of that for me?”

Three gazes waited, with three different levels of irate incomprehension.

“He will come back, Parker.” He pointed at the kitchen counter.

There they stood, lined up in a perfect line – eight ivory white pawns.

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***

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He started to stumble after an endless number of steps. All the drugs wore off, leaving only pain and weakness… and he felt great. Bat-shit crazy, and great.

Catching a bus was another thing that made him laugh. He was clueless. He hadn't ridden a bus for years, and didn’t know how it worked at all. Breaking the law was in his blood, clearly, because he had no problems with eventually being caught without a ticket. The next thing, he should try J-walking. Live dangerously, for a change.

But the bus took him where he wanted, and Massachusetts General reared its ugly head in front of him.

He needed a lair to hide. He thought about that when he was here the first time, how he would need months to come together, to live through all the things he had done. It wouldn’t take months now – but it would take time.

Always that damn time. He was sick and tired of running after the moments that escaped him, too slow to follow them. How the hell was he supposed to do anything, when everything he touched just slipped through his fingers? Chasing the people around him, chasing his thoughts, feelings. His heart and mind. Chasing himself.

It was time to _stop_.

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***

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Sun hit her eyes when the plane jumped over the clouds before turning to the west, and she squinted. She caught a glimpse of the Zakim Bridge through one deep tear in the cover under her.

Her hands moved, frantically pulling out all the books and magazines she bought while waiting.

“Are you okay, miss?” A smiling flight attendant stopped by her, and Florence erased the haunted edge from her eyes. Smiled back.

“A little nervous,” she giggled – grifted – and choked. “I’ll be fine.”

The woman nodded and continued.

She opened the first magazine and buried her face in it. Then she closed it with a hurry that provoked a suspicious glance from her left.

The first headline she read said: _Ten Signs You Let The Right One Slip Away_.

She rubbed her forehead, wearily, to erase the headache that threatened to pour out.

This would be one hell of a long flight.

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***

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He knew Hardison would go through all his safe houses, search every bus, train, plane, even rent-a-bikes, for crying out loud… There wouldn’t be any hole in this city that wouldn’t be touched and scanned. Relentless is what relentless does.

He couldn’t lose them now, he needed them. Damn, he _loved_ them. They were family. Kept him alive, kept him sane. They were returning him, slowly but, heck, _relentlessly_ , to his old self. Only with them he could ever hope to find _that_ man again.

He tried to feel him one more time, while he walked through Blossom Street. He almost caught him in the tunnels, but he slipped through his fingers like everything else did. He couldn’t recall that memory any more.

He knew only one thing for sure – if he didn’t get himself together, they would all die, one after another. They were lucky this time, only lucky. All the mistakes he had made, all the wrong steps, inability to act, to protect them, all of that could’ve led to disaster. He would never let that happen again.

Nate wouldn’t dare take another job without a hitter, and when they realized they couldn’t find him, they would wait.

He stopped in front of the building where Hardison bought an apartment to watch his hospital room window. It was empty now. Hardison’s people transported everything from here to Nate’s apartment. And it was probably the only place that Hardison wouldn’t remember to check, wouldn’t expect him to go there. It was too simple for his complicated mind. There was only one better place to hide from them, and that was Florence’s apartment, right under their noses. He would use it, but it felt wrong. It was her home. _Finished_.

Darkness welcomed him. The blinds were lowered, letting in only a few rays of dusty light to show him where to step. They fell on the opposite wall, with two boobs cut into it, with a hole where Parker’s bullet ended up when he shot her.

He locked the door behind him and slid down the wall, to the floor, just like he had done the last time. He felt almost as bad as he felt then, with his knees shaking, and the waves of nausea and dark dots in front of his eyes.

His pent-up feelings simmered in his heart with no release; he tried to laugh again, to ease that pressure that choked him, before his chest exploded. And only a cry escaped, laughter struggling uselessly to overcome the tears; that mess curled him in an aching ball of pain.

He cried, and laughed, and cried, until he couldn’t produce any more sounds, until he just laid there, half conscious, empty and crushed from a sheer exhaustion. He scarcely felt anything except a tremble set deep into his bones.

And it was just the beginning.

He had a meeting with the ghosts of That Night, memories and monsters. With sorrow, loss and love. And hope.

Maybe the person who would rise from that pile of shit, in the end, would be something worse. Maybe something broken, or ruined for good.

But it would be him.

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*

**\- THE END -**

 

**PS: The Epilogue follows as usual – next Friday.**

 

 

 


	71. Epilogue

 

 

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**Reminder: The Occam’s Razor Job takes place after the episode The Lonely Hearts Job ( Season 4, episode 15). The Season Six Job follows right after TORJ.**

**The only three remaining episodes in Season 4, before they move to Portland, are The Gold Job, The Radio Job, and The Last Dam Job.**

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So, this is the end, TSSJ is done.

TSSJ can stand on its own, but this epilogue has to be written, to link everything with The Arch-nemesis Job (which takes place about six months later, before The Rundown Job, Season 5).

For now, I don’t have any plans for a third story in the series. That can change very quickly – I still remember that I said, at the beginning of The Season Six Job, how this one will be much lighter and much shorter than The Occam’s Razor Job. Now, after more than 400,000 words (don’t ask :/ ) I suggest you don’t take seriously anything I say about writing.

I’ll try to write more, and balance my original fiction with Leverage as much as I can, but I can’t promise anything.

(and even if I promise… see above :D )

Anyway, thank you all.

Your comments in the Christian Kane Vote&Promote Group on Facebook (which you should join) *end of shameless promoting*, and here in reviews, meant the world to me, and you are the only reason this story was written.

In the end, I want to thank the real hero of this series – my faithful beta, Trappercreekd, Lydia. That girl was with me from the very beginning, more than two years ago. (I guess she regretted many times she had agreed to beta the first chapter of TORJ :D ) She beta-ed 687,000 words, people! And if I ever hit a million, (pshaw, just one more story, not very long :D ) I hope she will still be with me :D

Nina Dvorak, Ginypig and quirkapotamus jumped in and helped with few chapters of TSSJ (thank you), but she did all the rest.

Future plans: try to rest a little, and MAYBE write something short and easy, to stay in touch (see the warning above :/ )

Until then… read other writers. They keep Leverage alive.

Thank you.

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**Chapter 71 – The Epilogue**

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***

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Seeing Jethro’s smile after such a long time was like a bolt of electricity running through Florence. It took just one, one wide smile, to bring her back and anchor her in her life.

Her worst fear, that she would see him, and feel nothing, dissipated in a second, leaving her weary with relief. His joy, and pure happiness on his young, so loved face, set her heart in an old rhythm.

“You look fat! -- And you look old, hah -- but now I'm famous, you should bow before me! -- hey, I made you a soup, a _soup_! With these two hands!” The whirl of laughter, kisses, fast-paced babbling, and one giant hug… and her mind sat back in its old place.

No scars on this face. Only one, in fact, he probably cut himself shaving before he went to pick her up, and a Mickey Mouse band-aid stood proudly on his cheek. No haunted eyes. His eyes glowed bright blue.

“Not fat,” he pinched the skin on his stomach, eyeing it worriedly. Of course he wasn’t fat, he was lean, almost skinny, all long arms and legs and typing fingers. No restrained energies compressed inside him – he was a sleek Big Bird, with a bunch of untidy blond whips on the top of it.

His ghosts, if he had any, were playing basketball in some fancy resort for unemployed torturers.

“And I took a day off. As soon as we get Orion, I’m going to throw you into the bathtub – you _smell_ – and lock you somewhere until you start to look as my precious golden wife. Nauseated?”

Nah, her jet lag hadn’t kicked in yet, but tomorrow would be a different story.

She clung to his hand, leaving to him to take care of everything, feeling beyond exhausted, but happy.

She was a fool. She had nothing to fear.

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***

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“Wait, wait, wait… so you’re basically telling me someone tried to _kill_ you?”

She sighed. It was way too early for her report, and her morning coffee didn’t clear her mind yet. She should’ve waited until he got back from work. When they got home yesterday, she was only able to eat the soup; then she crashed on the sofa and he carried her to bed. She was sleeping before they entered the bedroom. She watched him grabbing his phone, bemused.

“Hi Darlene, tell Mike I’ll be late today – he can start without me, I’ll catch up. Yeah, fine, give him the phone.”

She listened to his explanation that went into editing waters, feeling the gentle smile returning to her face. He would get along so well with Hardison.

She dreaded the night, but she slept in his arms, and no nightmares visited her dreams. She didn’t have the strength to tell him anything last night, deciding it would be better to wait for today.

She pushed her plate away; she couldn’t eat.

“Okay, continue,” he put the phone down. “And a friend of our neighbor helped you and disarmed the killers? How do you know it wasn’t a plain robbery? Who is that friend? Have you called the police?”

“One of them was Wayne Matthias Bauman – we called him Goon A – an ex-cop, and the main henchman of Don Lazzara, Boston mafia boss. He was the one leading the killers that tried to kill me in Knudsen’s Dvorak Security building, chased me into an underground garage. He almost killed Eliot and Hardison, friends of our neighbor, when he took them to an abandoned slaughterhouse to kill them. He sent a sniper who fired one thousand and five hundred bullets at me. He was the one that killed, with two bullets, two agents at the very PVA ceremony. Yes, I think I can say it wasn’t a plain robbery.”

“You’re joking, right?” his jaw dropped slightly, and though he tried to smile, it remained just a try.

“Okay, from the beginning – I’ll try to explain everything, just listen.” She started slow, painting the pictures before his eyes, making a synopsis of the events. Just mere facts, no feelings, no fear, no explanations.

“And those people just helped you without any reason? And they happened to be specialized in helping people in trouble, by breaking the law?” he asked with suspicion coloring his voice. “Are you pulling my leg, Florence?”

She took a deep breath. “Yes, they helped me, without reason. Because t-that’s what they do.”

“If I were you, I would check your accounts, and see if something valuable is missing from our apartment.”

She subsided a twitch of annoyance. “I checked my accounts – I have a 3 million dollar deposit. Hardison bet on my victory at the PVA.”

“And gave it to you? Just like that?”

“He used my money. And yes, I didn’t know he had done that – but if I'd lost, he would give it back.”

He darted her a stupefied glance, and rubbed the back of his neck. “Don’t be a naïve fool – that guy probably earned 30 million – with your money – and only gave you the change.”

She waited patiently, keeping a light smile on her face, knowing how difficult it was to comprehend everything what happened. She couldn’t explain the trust – so she continued showing him all the things they’d done to earn it.

But again, it seemed that his attention was set only on the team, and not on the mafia threat. “Are you aware that that woman probably got her criminal record by swindling old people of their pension money?”

“ _That_ woman came after me and pulled me out of Knudsen’s building. She saved my life!” She decided not to tell him anything about the chase through the woods – he would probably count all the traffic rules Sophie broke. She went on with #SeaOfCrimson action, and though this time he just listened, she was the one who rolled his possible comments in her head. Yes, Jethro, they paid for all those thousands of balloons, trucks and equipment, they gave money to fans who couldn’t afford to join, and yes, Parker gave – simply _gave_ away – a yellow diamond.

His raised eyebrows were dampening her spirit, and her voice wavered. She rushed through all the attacks on the apartment; her story started to slide over all the details, explanations and motives. Stating only the facts.

“And why didn't Ford use Vivian to press charges against that mob guy? She’s a well-known of associate of Vuitton’s, her word would mean something.”

“Too much attention on them. Exposing everything that happened would just confirm to Don Lazzara and Knudsen we were doing something against them – we were preparing to bring down Knudsen next morning and it wasn’t wise to involve police. Bonnano worked with them before and he knew it was better to wait and see what Nate Ford is up to, then to rush and spoil things going via the usual police channels.”

“ _You_ were preparing to take down a mob boss?” he jerked up to his feet and went to throw the dishes into the dishwasher. “I thought you knew better than to get hooked into somebody’s crime world – are you aware you were deep into illegal things? Have you thought about what damage it could do to your career?”

“Yes, being buried is fatal to anyone’s career! Didn’t you listen at all? They saved my life, many times!”

“You should get yourself a lawyer, and cover yourself. I’ll find someone who’s working with stars, they know how to cover up things.” He returned to the table and leaned on it with both hands. She stared into a mixture of worry and anger on his face. “They will know where to search, to see how those criminals used you, what they had got from you.”

“They didn’t – I’m not finished, we dealt with Kn-”

“I’m not talking about the mafia!” he cut her off, and his long hands waved around in helpless frustration. “I’m talking about your so-called friends, so appropriately in the right place, at the right time! You are a good person, dear, you often don’t see the bad in people – they used you for something. We have to find out what.”

“Why is it so hard to believe somebody would help someone without asking anything in return?” she snapped the question, then forced herself to calm down. He was worried, and she attacked him with too many things way beyond his ability to understand. She thought they would kill her in the bathtub, for god’s sake, and she had enough time to re-arrange her thinking. He was overwhelmed.

“We’re talking about real life, not your show,” he calmed his voice as well and came to her. “They aren’t the romantic heroes you create.”

“Yes, that’s exactly what they’d told me about themselves.” What Eliot told her in that heated confrontation before they…before… She blocked her thoughts, quickly. “They aren’t nice. But they do help people, just because they can.” She wanted to add ‘doing good for the sake of good’, but she wouldn’t be able to stand his despise.

He wrapped his arms around her, and she relaxed. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m just worried, that’s all. What happened next? Are you completely out of danger now?”

What happened next? The search of the slaughterhouse, with body parts and rats, Chinese guns, more fighting, bringing Knudsen down, Parker’s suicide at the Zakim bridge, the entire internet action… and the PVA. It would take hours to tell him just about the PVA part.

She had no strength for that, not now that she would have to fight his disbelief after every sentence.

“They found enough evidence to put both Knudsen and Don Lazzara behind the bars,” she said quietly. “I’m completely clean now, nothing to worry about.”

“That’s great,” he kissed her and hugged her tighter. “You can tell me more when I get back, we’ll go to dinner, okay?”

“Sure.”

She watched him leave, frustration and emptiness whirling inside her.

.

.

.

***

.

He didn’t ask. She didn’t offer.

They went to dinner with his friends from work, two young couples, and she enjoyed all their stories about The Hobbit – but every five minutes she had to stop her hand from reaching for her phone, to call Hardison and tell him the top secrets they revealed with such ease.

And the wine was good, too. After the third glass, her good mood started to sink – she watched them, listened to their empty babbling that turned into the usual gossip. Especially two girls, Emma and Kelly. They were Parker’s age, both blond and beautiful, and if you put all three of them together you would think they were from the same circle, on the same level. Until you looked them in the eyes, and until they opened their mouths.

Except for work, all what they could talk about were stars on location, and the dirty secrets that circulated around. And _reality shows_.

They weren’t damaged or broken – she should get along with them perfectly. Enjoy their joy in life, and forget dark people, strained eyes, and fear they so perfectly kept hidden.

“… and she changed five times that day, just because Nona showed her a new dress that morning, and she had to…”

She excused herself, and ran away to the bathroom. It was the wine, she tried to tell herself, only the wine made her hands tremble. Jet lag was slowly ebbing away, she should’ve thought about that, and not drank.

Was it possible that she had been just one of them before all this happened? Enjoying empty blather, closed into a small TV world, concentrated only on her work and the people near it? Oh, it was possible. Maybe not _this_ empty… but surely focused only on a small circle of equally shallow people.

Shallow people didn’t have scars, layers of pain, their eyes didn’t reflect the struggles that built them and raised them up and up, until just one of their smiles had more life and meaning than hours of talk.

How she missed them, all five of them.

_Wine, again_. She was getting pathetically whiny. There was her husband, and nice, good people. Good as in ‘good-good’, not as in ‘do terrible things and try to make up for it’.

She returned to the table. Jethro was blowing soda through a straw, trying to hit Dave’s ear. They all laughed, so damn happy and careless. She drank enough wine, so she would be able to laugh with them, too.

But the wine didn’t stop her from thinking about how none of these good people came after her to knock on the bathroom door, to ask her what she was doing in there, and tell her the set of tells they’d read.

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***

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Sex was her second fear. Guilt and shame paralyzed her thoughts, but when they came home – after she relaxed again and took these people as they were, and not what she needed them to be – she initiated it.

And when she hugged him and kissed him, he remained Jethro, he didn’t merge into… someone else. Her relief was so strong that she almost cried, again wrapped up in so familiar love, desire, and that body she knew so well. They were alone that night in the bed, for hours, no other blue eyes disturbed her – until Orion decided that was enough, and came to snuggle.

She thought – again – that everything would be just fine, but she woke up screaming, pulled into the worst of all the nightmares she had had until that night.

She couldn’t fall asleep until he promised he would stay awake and hold her.

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***

.

The days that followed were a damn rollercoaster. She went up, and sank down, then up again, and she had no idea how long it would take for her to settle, finally, somewhere in the middle.

Jethro worked more than twelve hours a day, and she tried to organize her life around all the preparations for the season six. She had to build a season arch and slowly put things in motion. This time last year, she had five episodes ready in her head when she came to New Zealand, and her stay here had been a busy joy.

And now? She couldn’t come up with an idea for a single episode. She didn’t have a main theme for the season. She even pulled out old ideas, and a list of possible plots they talked about during the last year. All of them were good enough, and clever enough… but every time she had to start working on a plot, she found herself thinking what _they_ would do, and how. She didn’t have seven righteous outlaws in her head now – she had five grifters, that whispered their complicated cons and scams, messing with her thinking, _changing_ the way she wrote.

She, also, stopped eating.

There wasn’t any reasonable explanation for that, she simply couldn’t force herself to eat a proper meal, except occasional fruit or a sandwich.

The daily routine was simple: coffee, putting her papers from one pile onto another for hours, going to meet Jethro at his lunch break – lying that she'd already ate – going back to the tiny apartment to return the papers to their initial piles, for hours. And all that time, she tried to fight all the memories, burying them as deep as she could.

But she couldn’t. She was alone for most the day, and she wasn’t strong enough to fight them off. She wasn’t _thinking_ about him, no, thoughts just ambushed her, quickly. It wasn’t a process, more like flashes of images, feelings, situations, and her poor brain, constantly bombarded, felt like a punching bag. Every time she thought of him, a rush of guilt would squeeze her stomach, acid burning her inside.

The guilt was much worse than in Nate’s apartment, when she started to feel for Eliot, but the origin of her troubles was the same. She was lousy at keeping things from people. It was easier when she had told Eliot that she wanted him. Maybe all this would stop if she told Jethro that she was attracted to another man. The thought that she kept something from him, a thing she never did, was a burning pain in her side, it intensified all her troubles. She knew, though, that that conversation wouldn’t be an easy one, so she hesitated, deciding to leave it as the last solution, if anything else failed.

Her day was one giant struggle to stop memories. Her nightmares were full of Eliot. The only time that Eliot wasn’t present, was a bed with Jethro in it – having sex or not, it didn’t make any difference. Being together and being close was enough. Jethro was the only shelter for her, so she clung at him. One love should have strength to fight off another.

Jethro didn’t know what to do, and what to think about all that was happening to her. She couldn’t tell him that by intensifying their love, she kept the other one at bay.

It worked for a few days. Their evenings were bliss. She _was_ happy.

But she lost ten pounds. And when the nightmares continued, without any sign of stopping soon, Jethro started to lose his patience.

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***

.

She didn’t help. She was constantly tired and miserable and she started whining about his work, asking for more time together. He took another day off and they spent that day together… but he had to make up for that by working a few hours longer for the next five days, and his coming home moved to late night. He was exhausted, no matter how much he adored his job. And instead of the rest, his nights were full of screams and crying, and his deranged wife who wouldn’t let go. Oh, she knew how needy she was, turned into a spoiled, selfish child. But she couldn’t stop.

Their first serious fight was near one dawn, when he listened her talking in her sleep about the tunnels. Apparently, she begged Nate not to send her to Lucille to get George while the shooting lasted.

It added more fuel to his Thing with the team. He projected every fault onto the team, totally diminishing the main Killers Inc. plot.

He suggested she should seek professional help. She refused with indignation. She wasn’t crazy, she was just stressed.

The next day, he sent her his troubleshooting lawyers. She rolled her eyes, knowing exactly what each of the team would do to them, and threw them out.

That night she tried to explain how stupid his reasoning was – it was as if she was stressed because of a fire in the apartment, and he blamed the firefighters who pulled her out.

He refused to listen, leaving her stupefied. And she thought _she_ was the childish one in this marriage. Her anger burned in a second, and she continued where she stopped the first time – she told him every damn thing they did, and everything that happened at the PVA, in one fierce monologue.

“You shot a man?” he stuttered when she finished.

She closed her eyes, waiting for the storm that would hit her, but his arms were around her in a second.

“I’m so sorry, I had no idea. You should’ve told me all of this at once, not waited for this long.” He looked her in the eyes then, looking guilty. “And, and... yes, I admit those people actually did… a very good job. Now I see.”

Now she evil-eyed him, and he laughed. “I still think you trusted them too much,” he admitted. “But whatever they did, they kept you alive. And I’m grateful for that.”

Okay, small steps. This was a definite improvement.

She was so happy, that when he asked, carefully, was it possible for him to sleep on the sofa in the living room so he could rest before going to work, she didn’t only agreed, she practically made him do it.

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***

.

It continued that way. He would sneak out during the night, and though she rationalized his motives – and he was right, he needed his peace – she couldn’t not think that she was going through hell alone. Much worse than that, it seemed that her nightmares weren’t troubling him now, when he wasn’t the victim of them. He stopped nagging about going to find some help. That added to the bitter taste in her mouth.

But how she could blame him? They were married two years, and lived together, because of their jobs and travels, a little over one year. When they were together, it felt like a prolonged honeymoon, and they didn’t have time to fall into a boring life routine. The longest period they were together in one go was three months, at the very beginning. L.A. was exciting for a young new couple; they partied most of the time.

He simply didn’t know what to do now, when things weren’t just sex, dancing and joy of life.

_What would Eliot do_? That was the most frightening sentence that _ever_ crossed her mind. The sentence that destroyed marriages, lives, loves. Because she knew, exactly, that he wouldn’t, ever, let her go, that he would do the impossible to make her laugh, reading her needs before she would be aware of them. She couldn’t imagine a nightmare brave enough to stay close in his presence, for starters.

Jethro wasn’t like him. Jethro was more like Hardison – much younger, a brilliant geek, self-centered and openhearted. Yes, the two last qualities were possible at the same time, she witnessed that many times in their two years. No matter how little time they actually spent together, she trusted and respected him always. No love could live without those two combined.

Yet, one tiny, evil voice asked her how she could be sure about the love that had never been tested – this was their first crisis, the first cloud on their horizon. He wasn’t coping very well with this trouble.

But, it was her fault, not his. She was the problem here, and she couldn’t blame him for not knowing what to do. So she decided to see the psychologist, Dr. Maddox. A nice, old lady that Emma recommended to her, hoping she would get some sleeping pills.

She told her all that happened, but concentrated mainly on the danger and stress.

Diagnosis: a mild breakdown. Therapy: just take your time, dear. Drink warm milk.

She was too polite to slam the door after her.

The nightmares continued.

She lost ten more pounds.

The second therapist was an energetic yuppie with feather braids and too much makeup. Dr. Ann Warren seemed weird enough. _And when exactly did someone’s weirdness became a quality to seek out in people_?

She told her about the affair with Eliot. And the danger.

Diagnosis: suppressed guilt with neurosis. Mild PTSD. Therapy: talk with Jethro. And drink warm milk.

It was a relief that someone with authority confirmed that she should talk to him. It couldn’t end badly, when she felt, finally, that a burden would be lifted from her back.

She tried warm milk. It didn’t work.

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***

.

She chose a small Italian restaurant for that talk. They’d never fought before and she never used that trick, but it worked pretty well in one of her episodes. All drama went smoother when in public. She had told him they needed to talk, so he came prepared, with worried question behind his eyes.

She ordered his the favorite pasta before, so it arrived with him.

She waited until waiter cleared out. “Dr. Warner told me I should talk to you – no, no, I’m completely fine – but there’s one thing I didn’t tell you, and that bothers me immensely. I have to tell you.”

“You didn’t kill that man?” he asked carefully. “Or somebody else?”

Oh, that would be easy, compared to this. She fidgeted with her fork and Parker immediately came to her mind. There was something weird with that girl and a fork; she saw Nate’s reactions, but never quite got the grasp of it. She should’ve asked openly and… dear god. She stopped her thoughts and returned before the eyes of her husband. Maybe he was right – that team _was_ messing with her mind.

She smiled and just shook her head. “No, Jethro, I...” Damn, this was harder than she thought. “First of all, you know I love you, don’t you?”

“This is an ominous beginning,” he said with a smile. “Yes, I know. Why?”

“Because I, I was… attracted to another man.” She watched all expression fade from his face, leaving a blatant emptiness. “It lasted a few days, back in Boston. It was… strange. Nothing I could command or control, anyway. But it troubles me, and I have to tell you.”

He left the cutlery, slowly, by his plate. “Did you sleep with him?” his voice was colorless.

“No! Though, we kissed.”

“It was one of _them_?” his voice went bitter.

“Does it matter who that was?” she said. “The other side is irrelevant. It was me who, who… I can’t explain it. But I don’t want any secrets between us, and that troubles me. I’m sorry.” But as she watched his tightly pressed lips, she realized she wasn’t, actually, sorry. Something so honest, so…pure, shouldn’t be a reason for guilt. She was a live, healthy woman, and she had natural reactions. Even simple lust would be normal – but they had much more than that. She loved him, madly, in that short time that was given to her to have him. And she would never regret that, nor think of it as it was something dirty.

But she had enough mind left to keep that to herself.

He kept silent.

“Half of our friends have open marriages, Jethro,” she said gently. “A fourth of them are regulars at swinger parties. The rest of them have lovers, sometimes both of them the same one, at the same time. Our marriage is, if you look it that way, something very strange in Hollywood waters.”

“Maybe because we thought that loving each other was enough?” he asked quietly. “Maybe because we didn’t need anybody else?”

The blow hit her with unexpected strength. “One kiss isn’t a threat for our marriage.” The exact words that Eliot had told her. Looking at the hurt in Jethro’s eyes, she wasn’t sure Eliot was right. “I wasn’t cheating on you. I could. And I’m here, with you, because I want it.”

“Well, I guess it had to happen, sooner or later.” The crooked smile was a very bad attempt at it, and she realized this didn’t help with her guilt. No, it added to it. “Yet, I’m not sure if I wanted to know that.”

“I had to tell you,” she said once more, not sure if she was saying that to him, or to herself. “We can’t go on lying and hiding things. I can’t.” Fuck honesty – she could just keep her mouth shut, and not hurt him.

“Anything else you want to share with me?” She withered under his eyes – nothing hostile in them, just hurt pride and bitterness; she knew it would last until he processed this.

“Nothing.”

“Okay, then, let’s eat. I’m tired.”

She was in New Zealand only two weeks – and all of a sudden, she wasn’t so sure that the rest of her days here would be something to look forward to.

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***

.

Their silences grew longer. She withdrew a little, giving him space and time to get over that unexpected blow, trying to be as normal as she could. He kept sleeping in the living room, and she tried not to mention any nightmares, which, by the way, continued. Only now Jethro was a part of them, actively at the PVA. Once he killed Eliot. The second time Eliot killed him. She almost lost her voice, tortured by silent screaming.

Her days became an endless line of slow-paced hours, while she prepared for evening, gathering all her strength for a good mood and chirping. She had to find a way to bring to life that careless, loving feeling they’d always had. He needed that. Her blaming herself added more weight on her back.

Jethro seemed to be constantly irritated with her losing weight, her sleeping trouble, and he was snapping with bitterness that was well deserved, so she didn’t react. She had to wait for it to pass.

Her episodes were just an ever-growing bunch of torn papers, and she seriously thought about calling her writers for an earlier meeting, if not giving them free rein to try to save the season while they still had enough time.

She was a pitiful piece of shit, and she loathed the weakness and all this mess she caused. Everything seemed to slip through her hands, shattering on the floor.

When nothing changed, she gathered enough courage to suggest they should go to a marriage counselor. He agreed.

That was another mistake.

He was charming, young, handsome – a loving husband whose wife almost-cheated on him. She was a neurotic, low morals Hollywood person, who was so nervous that she couldn’t answer any question normally, immediately slipping into defensive mode.

Everything she said was used against her, and after every session, they went home with a bunch of useful tips for her, how to make her handsome husband happy. Even Jethro started to feel awkward.

Their last session was abruptly ended when the counselor said that she should try meditating techniques with a Jethro’s recorded voice telling her how worthy he was. She snapped. Jethro had to grab her and stop her from choking that chicken shit, and they both quickly cleared out before somebody called the police.

And they laughed. It felt liberating to laugh together, it felt almost the same – they went home together, deciding that they would need no more professional help.

He admitted he was a jerk, and that his hurt feelings were the main cause of it.

She agreed she would try to be more relaxed, more of old Florence. His golden wife, his pride.

She felt like a beaten boxer, trotting in the ring, waiting for the fall. This laughter was like a sip of water in the corner, a little time-out.

The second round could begin.

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.

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***

.

She had nobody to talk to. Going out with Emma and Kelly only added to her loneliness, because she felt the forced smile on her face, having trouble slipping into meaningless blather. Her small circle of friends was in L.A., but she not once thought of calling any of them. She needed Sophie. Only the grifter would understand her situation. And she couldn’t get her.

She broke down one morning and called Mass Gen, asking to speak with Betsy Roberts. She lost her courage in five seconds and ended the call before Betsy answered. What she could tell her, anyway? Ask about Eliot, and stir up all the pain and memories, making her life here even more difficult?

She did check his Farmville farm, once – it was deserted. All the crops were withered, turned into a wasteland. He didn’t need it for a con anymore, she reassured herself. And he'd hated it from the beginning. No bad omens, just an abandoned game.

After that, she stopped checking anything, not sure if she was breaking Nate’s rules of no contact.

Instead of that, she put more effort in socializing. Jethro was skipping their lunches together – his work was in the most sensitive phase, and Jackson was cracking his whips around them. She knew everything about post-production chaos. But that day she waited for him, armed with a good mood and a smile.

He stopped mid-step when he saw her – but when he saw her smile, he smiled back.

They decided to walk through the park, because she still couldn’t eat, and he wasn’t hungry.

He told her a few anecdotes from his work. She told him how Orion caught a spider, and freaked out when the spider moved after him.

And at the same time, they both became aware that they had nothing to say. Oh, they did – but only unpleasant things. She could tell him about her dreams; he could tell her about his hurt. But they didn’t have anything happy to share, anymore.

They stopped by the small fountain in the park, and watched a few ducks swimming there, side by side.

A surge of panic rushed over her – she had to find some way to mend this gap she'd caused. She was willing to do anything to help him go through this, but her throat was clenched, and no words came out.

“Emma invited us to a barbecue this Sunday,” he said. “Wanna come?”

She glanced sideways and just nodded.

“Great, it’ll be fun,” he said. “She likes you.”

The last time she's been standing in this position with a man, was with Eliot in the tunnels, when they watched darkness spread before them, full of mobsters that waited. They didn’t talk, they also had nothing to say. But when she smiled, in the pitch black, he _felt_ it.

Her husband was watching her now, and he couldn’t see the turmoil she was in, couldn’t feel even tears that stopped her from speaking.

“I like her, too.” She said, watching him smile.

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.

.

***

.

An invitation to Emma's and Fred's barbecue party seemed like a good chance to show how relaxed, good little wife she was, so she prepared for that weekend. That was a part of her job – mingling with people at parties, small talk, pouring charm all around. If she could do that at the cocktail party at the PVA, she could do it in their backyard with people she knew and liked.

And Jethro was his old self that Sunday. His good mood and the grin on his face warmed her heart, reminding her of why she loved him, why he always lit up her life and made it full of fun and joy.

She was certain she would have to grift and hide herself beneath false smiles, but she actually enjoyed the gathering. Five pairs, a few children, good music and a sunny day. Emma took over the barbecue, and chased the men away, so they ended up helping making salads and dressings, so funny in their clueless attempts. She laughed a lot, even danced by the pool. Jethro did try to topple her over in the water, a game they played from the beginning, and it felt _so_ good.

But, she was tired. She managed to hide the dark shadows beneath her eyes, the result of only one hour of uninterrupted sleep, yet the feeling remained. _If you can’t sleep at night, you’re awake in someone else’s dreams_. She stopped fighting those thoughts that attacked out of the blue. He might be thinking of her. A fact. _Move along_.

After they ate and beer and wine slowed the atmosphere, she knew she had to keep herself busy. Dozing by the pool would only burn her skin, not rest her.

She helped Kelly collect the children’s toys, and they went to the tool shed to put them away.

And there it was. A huge rat, jumping right in front of them, running along the fence to escape from the too crowd-y back yard.

Kelly screamed and ran back, but she stayed.

The rat stopped in the corner of the white picket fence, trapped. Only after a few seconds did she realize she wasn’t afraid. No screaming, running away. She saw it as it was – a scared, trapped animal, unable to move.

Their eyes met. Her inner silence deepened.

But the screams and laughter behind her back intensified, they all gathered to see the animal.

“Somebody bring a shovel!”

“No, wait, we can trap him, and play Catch later.”

“Or burn it.”

They spoke of killing so lightly, she thought, still watching the rat’s eyes.

“Get back, Florence, I’ll take care of this.”

She slowly went closer.

“What are you doing?! It’ll bite!”

No, it wouldn’t. Rats, just like dogs, could smell adrenaline in people, the same signal for fear and attack. She used that in the third season. Her adrenaline was all spent, she radiated only calm. And emptiness.

Small, frantic eyes were glued to her hand. She reached for the rat and he let her grab him.

“Eeuw!” the female voices let out one collective, disgusted cry. The rat twitched.

“No worries, little one,” she whispered. She carefully lifted him onto the fence, and waited until he scrambled over, escaping. _Don’t drink and drive_ , added a deep, rusty voice in her mind.

When she turned to the flash mob, they all went silent. Only a few months ago she would be a part of it, stupid, screaming, giggling. She wouldn’t care to look in the rat’s eyes. She wouldn’t feel the weight of life. And the weight of taking a life. They knew nothing.

A real, dazzling smile escaped her, when she realized she watched them from outside, not belonging there anymore. They had their own bubble now, and she could see the contour of it, closing them into a ball.

“Always wanted to do that,” she chirped then – grifted – with ease. And, as if by command, they all relaxed again, and the laughter and jokes continued.

Jethro was standing there with a big shovel. Old Florence would be glad at this try to protect her. Now, she felt only a sudden chill – she didn’t need protection _now_. She needed him from the beginning, to be with her and help her go through this, to return to her old self. And a mix of anger and hurt whirled inside her, when she finally got it – he let her alone. _No, worse_. He let her help _him_. She spent all those days tilting around him, trying to help him go through _her_ breakdown – and the absurdity of it escaped in one short huff of laughter. He gave nothing in return.

She did want this to work… but then a memory of Sophie’s laughter echoed in her head.

What would Sophie, _really_ , tell her, if she was allowed to call her or see her?

“ _You know that you want it – but you have to find out how much the other side is willing to give_. _Only then can you think of how to fix the mess_.”

How? She couldn’t just ask him that – every man would elude and try to skip away. _No, not every man_. There were men who, when you asked them what they would do, would tell you they wouldn’t ever let you go, and that they would wait for you forever. But that was not the point now. Now, she had to find some way to squeeze the truth out of Jethro, not letting him recover enough to think. She needed a spontaneous, raw reaction. Only that would be the true one.

“I want a divorce,” she said clearly, looking him straight into the eyes.

She expected to see shock, panic, fear, hurt – everything she would feel if she heard the same words – and she almost immediately opened her mouth to continue, to explain to him, quickly, that it was just a test.

But the only feeling that flashed in his eyes was relief.

.

.

.

***

-

The next few days were the best they'd had since she arrived, full of laughter, old jokes, old memories.

They both felt free. They talked, really talked. This time, she forced him to understand all that went wrong. They analyzed their marriage from the beginning, making a list of all the obstacles they faced, doing a much better job than any marriage counselor could.

The moment she stopped being golden, she became a burden to his self-centered world. His nose was dragging on the floor for two days when he realized that – and accepted it – and this time she willingly helped him to pull himself out of it. He would be a good husband, one day, after a few more women ditched him, every one of them pointing out his flaws. But it wouldn’t be her.

It wouldn’t work, at least not this way.

He admitted he flirted with his sound technician the last time she was in L.A. for months – that was a part of his too-hurt reaction to her affair. He was lonely. And she understood that.

When they were together, they were so happy that it finally happened, and their time together was something beautiful – but because of that, they didn’t have time for real fights, real problems. Real _life_ together.

This shit showed them both that being happy for a few months a year wasn’t enough for them. Their lives consisted of too many other things, and it separated them, more and more with each going away.

It could be improved, if one of them gave up their careers and follow the other around – a thing they couldn’t do now. That fact showed them both the real situation, and they felt only relief… though with a little regret. No, with much regret.

The divorce was a mutual agreement.

She felt closer to him now than ever before. Even the nightmares subsided. Nobody was killing anybody anymore – instead of the shooting in the tunnels, she dreamed of endless arguing between Eliot and Jethro about her food. After one nasty quarrel, she shot them both, and woke up laughing.

She started to eat.

And she packed her things, and prepared Orion’s transporter.

.

.

.

***

.

“You’re going to see him again, right?” Jethro asked her while they waited at the airport for her check in.

There wasn’t anything negative in his voice, just a cautious unease.

“Yes, probably,” she said. “And I suppose you’re gonna meet your sound technician, and see if it would work?”

“Not sure,” he shrugged. “I just got rid of one wife, give me a break. A man needs to rest.”

His grin still had the power of warming her heart, and she left her bag and wrapped herarms around his neck. “You’re one immature, irresponsible mess, Jethro McCoy,” she whispered in his ear. “And I will love you forever.” Oh, she meant it with all her heart. Sophie was right – loves grew when shared. Funny thing, now, after all this that happened, she knew how to love him… better. Fuller.

“Yeah, yeah – don’t get all mushy now,” he grumbled, but he held her tight. A bitter combination of ease and grief overwhelmed her. It felt like she wasn’t capable of simple emotions anymore – as if all that she felt was colored with an opposite feeling.

They made this light – but they both knew they were losing something.

She would probably try harder if she didn’t know she had Eliot, and that stung – but now was too late for regret. She made her choice – and luck was on her side, making this relatively painless for both of them.

“Tell that guy that if he doesn’t treat you right, he will have to deal with me,” he said, and she choked with laughter at the mere thought of Jethro facing Eliot in a righteous wrath.

And that was the thing left between them when she went away – a bittersweet laugh. And love.

She cried for four thousand miles, in straight line.

.

.

.

***

.

She did cause her marriage to end, but not by loving Eliot, not with that kiss and her guilt. Not even with her breakdown. She did it by growing up. The old Florence could continue and be happy, not knowing there were different loves, different people. This one couldn’t fit that box anymore.

Boston was soaked in rain when she arrived, two months after she left. It felt just right.

She had enough time to go through all her hopes and fears. Two months was a long period. Was he recovered enough to work again? What if he didn’t, really, mean any of the things he had said to her? What if he just humored her before she left, and forgot about that small affair the moment she went through the door?

Everything was possible. But she knew that, and she was prepared. It wouldn’t change anything. He was just one, not even a big, part of things that ended her marriage. If she didn’t fall in love with him, she would still be changed, not feeling good in her old skin.

When the taxi stopped in front of McRory’s she almost choked with laughter. She was _upgraded_. Not changed – her core remained the same. But she upgraded her programs, allowed them to reach deeper, to connect with things that gave her processor more RAM. Unfortunately, it also demanded more energy, and her previous input was insufficient. She needed more things to build herself further.

Whatever happened with her and Eliot, she would always be grateful for that chance they gave her.

The street was almost empty, evening fell on only a few parked cars. Old instincts woke up, and she glanced around, checking everything, while the taxi driver helped her with her luggage. She took Orion’s transporter and guided the man inside.

First thing: don’t even glance at the door of 2A while entering her corridor.

Second: take care of Orion, plug her laptop in, refresh a little.

Third: stop with that shit, and storm to Nate’s apartment.

There was a good chance only Nate would be at home, unless they were working on some complicated job. It didn’t matter; it was important she let him know she was here, and he would then call Eliot and the rest of the team.

She prepared to knock at the door, when she noticed a one inch crack. It was open.

That meant trouble. Her heart skipped a beat.

She didn’t think of calling the police – no, with them, that was the last option. She carefully pushed the door a little, ready to scoot away and run to McRory’s at the first sign of danger, but only darkness welcomed her. And silence.

There was no one in there. She held her breath and entered one step, feeling the wall with her hand, trying to remember where the switch was.

The main light flashed, almost blinding her. She looked around.

The apartment was empty.

There was nothing in it, it was completely cleared; no furniture, empty kitchen, no sofa and dead screens. The huge room seemed even bigger now.

She stood there, frozen, then ran up the stairs to check Nate’s bedroom. It was empty, too.

Only one thing remaining in the living room, a glass board they had used in briefings. No papers on it, just a two half-erased words. _Bellington dam_ , said large red letters.

This wasn’t a stage in the redecorating process. Her brain refused to cooperate, going through all the worst case scenarios. They might all be dead, killed in some of their jobs. Nate had said they had a few big things to deal with. Or they were arrested. Or…

She hurried to her apartment to search for Bonnano’s number, but she changed her mind and stormed down to a closer source of information, directly into the bar.

She found Cora behind the desk, chatting with the patrons, and waved to her to come to a table.

“Where’s Nate Ford?” she whispered before Cora sat.

“He left,” Cora said with a smile. Her eyes swiveled around them for a second. She caught the message, and schooled her face into a smile, too.

“It’s so nice to see you again!” she chirped and hugged her. Cora relaxed a bit and returned a hug.

“Is somebody watching us?” she asked with the same cheerful smile.

“Probably. They closed around them, came too close. They cleared out. I don’t know anything more, except that the building was monitored. FBI, State Police, Interpol, you name it. They’re waiting for them.”

“What they have done? Is it because of the PVA, or something happened later?”

“I know nothing about their jobs. But they won’t come back. Hardison put the apartment up for sale, set me as a middle man. When somebody buys it, and the rest of a building, I’m supposed to transfer that to some untraceable account, somewhere far away.”

“Why was his door open? Somebody is allowed to get in, or you wait for someone, or is it because they might return, not leaving any traces of entering?”

“Eliot said to keep it open, don’t know why. Nobody was in there since they left. A week, or ten days ago, don’t know for sure.”

“How can I find them?”

“You can’t.”

The two simple words, and her world crumbled. It took enormous amount of strength to maintain the smile.

“I’ll buy it,” she heard herself saying. “I’ll buy Nate’s apartment.” She had enough money for that. No, she would buy the entire building if necessary. They _had_ to return here, sooner or later, Nate will manage to clear them up and stop this surveillance.

The very thought of some other people in there made her shiver.

She dragged herself upstairs.

Orion welcomed her with the three short meows. He probably asked when he could go to play with George.

She was too numb to cry.

.

.

.

***

.

She wasn’t helpless. No matter how dumb her brain was right now, she still knew how to use it. She was able to find out the bigger part of their doings That Night just by searching and using all the clues they revealed.

She typed Bellington dam into Google, made coffee, and got to work.

It didn’t take too long before the story started to reveal itself before her eyes – the fall of Latimer had Nate’s handwriting all over it. She gathered all the info she could find, and went to search for more.

First of all, she had to see if there was some mention of any of them on the internet. Deaths, arrests, accusations, involving in something that went wrong. Thank God, only Nate Ford’s name pinged a few results.

And it wasn’t pretty. She read a report of his father killed in a suspicious warehouse explosion – he was noted as the next of kin. It was only a month ago. After that, they started with Latimer and Bellington dam.

She clearly remembered how Hardison mentioned once that there was a possibility they would have to disappear. They told her that the PVA wouldn’t trigger it, but it surely didn’t help with this big case too near after that. They were too exposed, and they paid the price.

She also remembered how he said that the next time he would buy something where _he_ would live, not Nate. She added that to her list of useful trails.

They could be anywhere. But they wouldn’t choose too a small town – she could scratch out all cities under one million citizens. Also, they would choose a different state, so Massachusetts went away from her list. She made a note to look at all the differences in laws, taxes, and jurisdictions of several law agencies, and see which state would be the best for their line of work.

Her writing brain – after being in hibernation for two months – woke up kicking and screaming. She had a puzzle in front of her, a game of invisible clues… and she was going to find them.

And all of a sudden, she knew the theme for her cursed season six – hope.

It was all that she had left now, but it wasn’t only because of that.

People needed a reminder of the true meaning of honor and strength. Too many superhero mutants was floating around on the big screen, diminishing the small people. Her season would show everybody that you didn’t have to have super strength or laser eyes to be good, to do good. Ordinary people, with wounds and scars, with fears and feelings, weren’t invincible, they paid the price for their struggle. They paid heavily for the honor and strength. Her heroes would show everybody that.

As if she knew, she'd made the groundwork at the end of the fifth season, with blood, betrayal and death. It was time to continue, to give them a new life, a new hope.

Damn, it was so strange to feel desperate loss, and a hopeful challenge at the same time – but her brain functioned the best when deadlines approached. She had a deadline – it was _now_.

She had to find him.

She put aside all her notes about the season, and went to the info she gathered from Cora and articles.

Why had Cora said that Eliot wanted the door to remain open? That didn’t make any sense. Except he knew she would return and knock. If the door wasn’t open, she wouldn’t see the empty apartment. Only that, or was there something else in there?

She sprang to her feet and went out. As soon as she transferred the money to Cora, she would close this corridor so no other people could wander around.

She went into 2A – the lights were still on, and she decided to let them be that way all the time, while gathering all the same furniture and slowly returning it to the same shape – Nate’s windows should always be lit with warm, yellow light. She stood there, looking around.

It took only five seconds before she got it, and smiled. She went directly upstairs, to the bathroom. To _her_ bathroom, her hiding place, where she took a refuge every time she was scared.

And there it was, placed openly on the sink under the mirror.

A delicate marzipan rose. Bloody red. It was so vivid and intense, that he must’ve put an entire bottle of color in this tiny flower, making it vibrant. Almost alive.

She took it, trying not to cry, and caressed the tiny petals with her fingers. The almond smell brought her back, and her heart bled the same color. This wasn’t a time for tears, she reminded herself. The key word was still _hope_. Nothing would stop her, especially now that she knew he had meant every word he said.

Yet, her steps were slow and tired when she went down the stairs.

“Good evening, Mrs. McCoy,” a soft, quiet male voice came from under her feet. She couldn’t see him yet, and she stopped on the stairs.

“Nothing to worry about, come down. I’m Nate’s friend.”

Well, she couldn’t do anything else, could she? She held the rose tighter, and continued down.

A small man in a black suit, with a smile glazed over his face. Black hair, retreating from his high forehead. Deep, dark eyes, shining with a smile.

“My name is Sterling,” his smile grew wider. “James Sterling.”

.

.

.

***

.

He held a bottle and two glasses in his hands. He saw her watching his hands, and clinked the glasses. “This? It became a tradition. Every time I came to visit Nate, I brought whiskey – or it was already waiting for me. We used to drink together after work – also one of our traditions. We worked together, a long time ago. Friends and rivals. Good times.”

She listened to the words pouring smoothly from his mouth; his soft accent was pleasant, and smile genuine. _So was Don Lazzara’s_.

“May I pour one for you? I don’t like drinking alone.”

“Yes, please. A double.” She sat on the second stair from the bottom, and he gave her a glass. She thought a second, then pulled herself a few stairs up, so he could also sit.

The tiny warning bells in her mind were loud enough to remind her not to rush into anything. He could say he was Nate’s brother, and she had no means to check it.

He sat sideways, resting his back on the railing, stretching his legs to the other side, and looked up, at her.

“So, he did his disappearing trick again, didn’t he?” he said. “I thought he would find some other, less dramatic way of moving the business to another town. The last time I had the honor of being present, when they cleared out of L.A. They went with a bang, I must say.” She studied his face, and she saw how his smirk flashed with a memory, she could almost see the things he saw before his eyes. Yes, this man was there, he didn’t lie. Her caution lessened a little.

“Why are you here?” she asked neutrally.

His face darkened a little. “Because I need to find him. There are a few things he has to know – dangerous things. I have to warn him. But I’m too late.” He slowly raised his eyes from the glass, and his smile became softer. “You don’t happen to know how to track him, by happy chance?”

Oh. The bells went into a loud ringing. A gentle, polite smile, a few facts that should gain her trust and confirm his connection with Nate, and after that a warning of trouble that she could help to divert from Nate… this man was a master. But she saw the other masters in a deadly game, at their best, and now she could recognize the same level of skill.

“I’m just a neighbor who returned from out of town,” she sighed. “I’m just surprised by this as you are.”

He said they were friends and _rivals_. To be a rival with Nate, to be equal to him, one had to be deadly. Her mouth went dry under his steady gaze.

“Can you tell me what sort of trouble he is in?” she smiled.

“Interpol is after him.”

One more true fact. Maybe he wasn’t here to harm him, after all.

“I am Interpol,” he added. Now he studied her, and she set her face into her best Emma- impersonating bland stare. _Think reality shows. Giggle_.

“I don’t get it,” she said. Not lying at all.

“It’s complicated,” he said. “But you can trust me.”

How did he know her name? He greeted her when she came down. And how did he know the exact time to come here, this evening of all of the days? They were still watching the apartment. Maybe even hers. She turned the lights on, and set their alarms off.

It was time for retreat. “Well, if you find out where he is, make sure you let me know. He owns me some money, I’d like to get it back.”

He tilted his head and his smile grew wider. “I forgot to congratulate you on your PVA award, Mrs. McCoy,” he said. _I know that you know that I know, so stop acting_. “You looked dazzling in that green dress. But Parker looked equally beautiful when she pulled you up off the stage. I’ve always said they should’ve let that girl shine, she is utterly neglected.

A true smile flashed on her face, she didn’t have to pretend now. “Really?” she beamed to hide the real cause of her delight. “Thank you _so_ much!”

Nate’s words just came true – if anyone tried to analyze the PVA ceremony, trying to find connections, trying to find _them_ , it would be with hostile intentions. This man was here to catch him, and he would use her. Over her dead… okay, probably only arrested… body. “They were so helpful, all of them, they guided me through that event like a real PR agency. I don’t know what I would've done without Sophie’s help.”

His eyes narrowed, but her good mood was true, he couldn’t catch any acting.

“And I’m sorry if I sounded so stiff at the beginning,” she continued without pause. “They told me not to speak with strangers – I had to see if you’re their friend or not. Of course I will help you any way I can.” She leaned a little towards him, and lowered her voice into a confidential whisper. “You know, he doesn’t own me money. I made that up. As a cover story, ya know?”

“I see.” He said only that, and she couldn’t read his attentive eyes.

“Do you have any number where I can contact you?” she continued. “Does Nate know you are looking for him? What should I tell him if I find them?”

He gave her his card and got up. “Don’t tell him anything, I will contact him. Just let me know if he calls you for… whatever reasons.”

“I’ll do that,” she chirped and raised her glass. He finished his in one sip, then looked at the rose in her hand. Somehow, his eyes on her flower made it dirty, and she barely stopped herself from hiding it.

“Don’t tell me,” he rolled his eyes, his voice going all melodic. “Eliot. Spencer.”

Instead of an answer, she spread her smile to blossom all over her face.

He shook his head, then smiled at her again – that man smiled a _lot_ \- and left the bottle on the stairs.

She waited until she heard the soft click of the door, and just then let out one long, shaky breath. It didn’t help with the knot in her stomach.

He walked silently. And he was as dangerous as hell, in the sly and sharp way Don Lazzara could only dream of.

She picked up the bottle and sneaked out.

.

.

.

***

.

The soft sound of the rain on her window was a painful reminder of her first night with the team. She found herself listening through her door, half expecting she would see _him_ standing in the corridor. She set her peep hole camera ready, just in case.

But she knew he wouldn’t come.

The last time she had a bottle of vodka. Now she had Jack, brought by a very, very deadly man who was after the team.

The worst thing, when her turmoil settled into a common panic, was the knowing that he didn’t come because she entered Nate’s apartment. No, he knew she was connected with them after the PVA, and he waited for her. It was her internet search about the team, their names, and Latimer, that triggered Interpol’s – and probably the FBI and State Police – alarms, putting them all in a high emergency state. Her place was probably bugged, and her internet and phone covered as well. She was a sitting duck here, put in the middle of a pond. They all waited for her to quack.

She was the one who could lead them all to the team, if she tried to find them.

And that meant she had lost him for good.

Hope now felt bitter.

She couldn’t contact Betsy and ask her if he left a number or something. That would be the perfect clue for all their enemies. Over Betsy, they could find him. Same situation with Bonnano, if he stayed clean after all that they had done.

“You know,” she said to Orion who was sitting on her working table, watching her blindly stare into the monitor. “If Nate knows this guy Sterling is after him, that means I know where Nate is. Simple, huh?”

Orion tilted his head.

“If Nate knows,” she repeated. “He would go right in front of his nose. I would do the same. And I still think we should’ve all moved into one of Don Lazzara’s apartments, instead of making those parties for the police in McRory’s. It would be classy.” She was fidgeting with the card in her hand. The other one still held her rose. Finally, she turned the card and read numbers and address of Interpol Head Quarters.

Just great.

It would be wiser if she didn’t look, this way it only hurt much more.

She was empty handed, she could do nothing. If she moved even her little finger, they could all end up dead.

If their lives were the price for not seeing him again, well, she was willing to pay it.

The rose bled red on her fingers when she looked at it, and she finally broke down and cried.

.

.

.

***

.

“Meow?”

“No. Just no.” She was on the second third of the bottle, when the loss and desperation hit her completely – but it didn’t bring more tears, it brought anger. “I’m not fucking Scarlett O’Hara – no way I would just let him go, and not think of something to bring him back. Not tomorrow – now. Interpol can go fuck their collective, half-bald head, I’m doing it my way!”

She leaned forward and touched Orion’s nose with hers. “I’m scared as shit,” she admitted. “But fear is something you don’t just learn to accept – no, they taught me how to dance with fear, they showed me the steps. We’re gonna find ‘em, ‘cause I know what to do.”

Her hands were tied – all means of search were out of her reach, and her every step could be dangerous for them – but she had something that only she could use.

“I have a TV, Orion,” she whispered, as an idea formed in her head, and just like the other episode’s flows and floods that often attacked her, that idea spread, and spread, flashed into scenes and dialogues, faster and faster, until she barely had enough time to grab a pen and paper and write all that down.

The Magnificent Seven was an Old West show. It was time to pay her tribute to the original cast. All of them would be called to be bad guys.

But the Old West had something more important – huge wastelands, where letters traveled for months, if ever reached the other side. A time without phones, internet, Twitter. People lost and separated in that time had very little hope of finding each other again.

Her first episode would entwine past and present – two plots, connected by one book. It wasn’t important now what clues that book would hold for the present-time action of her heroes. It was important who wrote it – and why.

And she set her first character, a female writer. Widowed, who found a love after she lost her husband, but she let him go. The accent on: she-is-not-married-anymore-and-she-can’t-find-you-moron (!!!) They separated, and he went to the West, and she never heard anything about him. Yet, she had one thing she could use (hah!!!) – she wrote a book for which she knew he would buy and read it, because it was hers – in which she told a story about widowed writer B who was searching for her lost love to tell him she was free and that she wanted him to come to her, and who wrote a book about a divorced writer C searching for her love, because it was the only way for her to reach him and tell him to come.the. fuck.back.home. Because she was free (sic!) and waiting for him (sic!). All three of them, A, B and C. Or even D? She would check tomorrow, when the whiskey left her brain.

Inception, eat your heart out.

He was supposed to be clever, right? The only clearer way to bring him back was setting up thousands of road signs around Oregon, with her half-naked in an inviting pose, including Call 080-DIVORCED.

Unfortunately, as much as it was tempting, and surely was the quickest way, that would also make Sterling set up camp in her corridor.

She would go nice and slow, and patient.

Writing of all the episodes would take two or three months, and she would move to L.A. to continue work with her authors. This time, she would try to spend more time in Boston. After all, she had a new apartment to prepare.

After that, shooting would take about four to five months – but the first episode would air while the last ones were still in production… that meant six months total.

Six months before he was able to see her message on the screen – and not only that… there was a chance he would simply skip watching it.

She had only a fool’s hope, but she clung to that. That hope would keep her going.

She turned the lights off, and put all her papers away… it was a deep, deep night.

Only the bluish screen gave some light.

It felt right. It sounded right, the rain still quietly whispering around her.

Orion jumped in her lap, and his soft purr mixed with other sounds, bringing her home.

Hope was a treacherous bitch. It had the power to strengthen people’s hearts, and squash them with one merciless squeeze – but she had hardened enough. And if this didn’t work, she would find some other way. She wouldn’t give up.

There was, also, a possibility that he would refuse to come, even if he saw it. People changed, priorities changed.

But it wasn’t important. It all comes to the last person you think of before you fell asleep – and her heart was set on only one face. She would love him forever, even if she never saw him again.

The rest of her episodes would be for him, whether he wanted her or not. She had the means to give him what he needed – that hope. Because she knew what he was searching for, all this time.

She would put that hope in every episode.

Put a little light in every ending, so he could see it.

Give every sinner hope, so he could feel it.

And one day, a candle in her window would guide him home.

.

 

*

 

**\- THE END   -**

 

 

 

%MCEPASTEBIN%


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